


Cats in Boxes

by mythicbeast, rabbitprint



Series: Cats in Boxes [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-02
Updated: 2006-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythicbeast/pseuds/mythicbeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a ghost, a berserker, and approximately eight thousand cups of coffee. Saix is alive and Vexen is dead, but not every book is closed and done, and Nobodies have always defied the rules of their existences anyway. Set post-CoM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting Up the Equation

**Author's Note:**

> Based on KH1, CoM, and KH2 only, no re-releases.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall of Castle Oblivion, it is Saix's task to dismantle the rooms of the dead. Vexen's, however, prove to be less than easy to deconstruct.

_In the shadow of Xemnas, Xehanort lurks._

 _Vexen sees it on occasion, when the Superior makes his rounds. Xemnas spends the most time with the other original five; out of sentimentalism, maybe or a need for familiarity. Curious, since a Nobody should experience neither. There must be other reasons to associate primarily with the senior members of Organization XIII -- that's what Vexen tells himself. He should not read too much into Xemnas's strange behaviors._

 _Vexen knows from experience that if he confronts the other man, Xemnas will scoff and claim that he can simply predict them better considering their common origins from Radiant Garden. A logical explanation, with little to do with the heart._

 _Or, at least, with what Vexen remembers a heart to be like._

 _Vexen does not mind Xemnas's quirks. They are interesting to study, and the Dusks provide a minimum in the way of strategic experimentation. Research on one another has brought all six of Ansem's students to their current state of being, and Vexen sees no reason to change that methodology._

 _But at times, Xemnas lingers near the other scientist's worktables, and his voice takes on an impossible hint of desperation. His fingers trace along the experiment folders. His palm latches onto Vexen's arm._

 _"This won't remain real forever, Even," he whispers, tightening his grip until the bones of the other man's wrist begin to grind. "This hand, this room, this -- none of it will stay **real.** "_

 _Vexen always meets his gaze steadily, accepting the pain before he leans forward to reply, "Are you more afraid that it will?"_

 _Xemnas reacts the same way each time. He pushes back, lets go, retreats with a mock-smile, mock-laughter. "So typical of you, Vexen," he jests, shaking his head as he saunters past the worktables, further and further away. "Always preferring solid dilemmas instead of abstracts."_

 _Then he's gone._

* * * * * *

Everything changes when Castle Oblivion comes down.

A Nobody is composed of a body and soul. So the scientists of the Organization have said. Saix isn't sure how much of that is true, but even he can't deny that he's missing a vital part of his emotions -- his heart, snatched like the golden yolk out of an intact shell -- and so there must be _something_ animating his body. Corpses don't just walk around on their own. Not usually.

They’ve already lost their hearts. Now five of them have lost their bodies as well; almost half their number, or close enough to it. Death has come to their timeless kingdom at last.

Death, and treachery.

Saix does not know which disturbs him more. He cannot say that he is bothered, because whenever he tries to look at the problem headlong, he finds himself indifferent. Marluxia turned rogue. Larxene joined him in conspiracy. Axel came back with a mouthful of stories, of keyblades and clones, and Saix is not sure what to make of _that_ either.

All he knows is that the root of the Organization has been sundered. Vexen is gone. Lexaeus is dead. Zexion is missing, missing and presumed deceased -- judging from the mock-sorrowful way that Axel lowered his head and rattled off something smooth about rogue experiments -- but they will never come back home, and that is what matters.

That is the shape of the void they have left behind.

Saix can feel the weight of loss when he tries, if he closes his eyes and nudges the figures in his mind around. Marluxia's plans have left a gap behind like that of a broken tooth. Xaldin and Xigbar stay close to the Superior, close like little birds, or particularly nasty guard dogs. Axel slinks around back corridors and rooftops, and spends most of his waking hours with the Key of Destiny. Luxord and Demyx both entertain themselves with their own hobbies. And in the middle -- in the middle there is nothing, and then there is Saix.

He starts at the beginning. He lets himself be drawn by impulse.

Walking through the Castle That Never Was is an act which a Nobody does only by choice, rarely from necessity. There is no need to climb stairs when a person can open a portal to the very next room. For that reason, the members of the Organization know better than to interrupt one another without invitation. Walking is a private time, an artificial creation of personal space; walking is a pretense, done to help someone think, not to travel from one location to another.

Saix wanders the Castle more often than he should. He likes to be in motion. The balconies overlook dizzying expanses of empty space, and the bridges twist around themselves. Walking helps him organize his thoughts, which like to become cluttered at the drop of a hat; it is, he imagines, the penalty and definition for being a Luna Diviner. He has instincts which he cannot understand. They are mute without a heart to speak through.

Memory and practicality tell Saix that a house is best cleaned from the top to the bottom, and so he begins his rounds in the highest towers, where the uneven peaks strain for the sky like supplicants to some unseen god. The altitude is enough to leave most men short of breath; actually managing to reach them calls for nothing short of a herculean effort.

For an ordinary man. Saix is, however, _not_ an ordinary man, and all it takes is a flick of the wrist and a step into darkness for him to reach the rooftop. He closes his eyes when he passes through. He has no fear of the uncertain, but he is not overfond of nothingness. It is too easy to lose oneself in it, and given the choice, Saix prefers the instability of his own mind to guide him.

His feet touch against the tile, and Saix opens his eyes.

Today, the sight of the World That Never Was sprawled out beneath him brings further discontent instead of peace; something about the yawning space tingles at his senses, making him restless. Undismayed, Saix drops from the eaves onto a lower parapet, twisting the laws of physics with casual defiance. For the members of the Organization, the illogical architecture of the castle is no hindrance, not when gravity is a distant concept to be merely nodded at. The peculiar configuration of the castle's interior and exterior is something conceived by madness -- or by someone with a twisted idea of what a true castle should look like.

If Saix was inclined to describe the Castle That Never Was, he would say that it's something like the _memory_ of a building, with ceilings that evoke the heavens, staircases grand enough for the entrances of any king, and ballrooms which could have been witness to uncounted numbers of friendships and heartbreaks and lovers.

The problem is, simply, that they're not set in the right places. The ceilings are shaped oddly, the grandness of space without the elegance of definition. The stairwells lead into one another, into rooms that don't exist, into _nowhere_. The ballrooms are silent and dead.

The castle's hallways reflect Saix's thoughts back at him, turning inwards and reinventing themselves with every step he takes.

When he realizes where his meandering path has taken him, Saix is standing in front of the door to Vexen's personal quarters, his hand already raised to the latch. Dust motes stir with each breath he draws, disturbed from their rest by the presence of something alive.

The rooms Vexen chose to claim as his own lurk, contrary to popular belief, on ground level. Evidence notwithstanding, it's difficult to shake the perception of the scientist as a dour creature, inclined to hiding in the darkness and comfort of dank laboratories in the bowels of the castle.

It's curious that Saix should find himself there. Despite the fact that Vexen's rooms are placed no higher than the main entryway of the castle -- relatively speaking, considering the building itself floats in the sky -- the doors to get there are greatly removed from any of the central halls. It's not especially surprising that no one has been there in some time. That entire wing of this castle was customarily left undisturbed even before IV's demise, its humble rooms rejected in favor of greater heights.

More than dust lingers here: even the doorway resonates with power.

Echoes of conversation. Crystallized time.

 _"Get out."_

 _"No."_

Memories should mean nothing to the members of the Organization, but they lurk anyway -- parentless snatches of moments irrelevant to Saix's thoughts or purpose, not unlike persistent children demanding his attention. The air is beginning to feel sticky, dead. To stay any longer is to invite disaster.

Before Saix can really consider what to do, one way or another, the door to Vexen's room creaks open, spilling golden light onto his face.

At first Saix flinches away -- from the light, the brilliance, the _vibrancy_ that implies that there is an inhabitant who is just down the hall, who will return at any moment. He has not intruded inside Vexen's personal space before. Always the researcher has kept to himself; kept his boundaries laced with harsh words and the stark dignity of a glacier, and Saix has preferred it that way.

For this reason, Saix always assumed that Vexen's secrets were his own to watch. That's simply the way of things in the Organization. That which can't protect its own will lose it.

But the innards of Vexen's quarters are a realm he has never dared upon. The two of them had little reason to cross paths for overlong before, and as his fingers brush the door, Saix has to remind himself that there is no reason not to finally intrude.

The first room beyond the door contains what looks like a general living space. One wall is composed entirely of windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, responsible for the brilliant illumination. Two doors lead off to either side; one of them, ajar, appears to open onto a study, and so the other, still closed, can only lead to Vexen's room.

On the low table in front of an overstuffed armchair, a teapot sits beside a used cup. The latter's porcelain is caked with the brown stain of old coffee. Both chinaware are dry as bones, but clearly well-used -- the plain blue flower motif is already fading along the handles, and a badly-repaired crack is wending its way up the teapot's side.

Books are everywhere. One lies shut on one arm of the chair, a torn sheet of paper serving as a bookmark. The title is faded beyond recognition.

Everything has been left as though its owner has simply stepped out for a moment, and the room has an air of expectancy.

"Get out," Saix whispers, mirror-mimic to a conversation long deceased. And then, more firmly, "No."

 _No_ is the answer, and he enters despite the urge to shiver. The reflex is rusty, a rudimentary function of his body that's little different from a bad case of hiccups or a yawn; it is the warning from his flesh to be wary, because there could be anything in this room.

But so far, everything looks ordinary. An armchair, a teacup, a book. He drifts past the settings with one hand spread, palm facing the floor, hovering at waist level like a blind man trying not to stumble. The air is cloying; it is _thick_ and full of memory, and Saix instantly realizes that he does not like it.

As much as he can dislike anything these days.

He resists the instinct to turn away, but only partially. His steps slow, and then stop. The arch of one foot lifts high even as his toes dig against the carpet in unconscious resistance. He is adrift in the remains of another man's life, and for a moment -- crazily -- Saix is not certain which way leads to the exit.

"No," he repeats again, and this time, the word is almost completely silent. The suggestion of his lips struggles against the lingering heaviness in the air. At last he shifts his weight, looking for an anchor to moor himself by, and settles on the book.

Fingers brush the cover with a curious reverence. What could Vexen have been interested in? More science?

The jacket of the book is slightly uneven, worn down in spots by the too-frequent press of lazy hands. It's clearly a book Vexen's browsed often, or possibly one that he's acquired already used. It's curiously warm for being left untouched for so long, and a bit of grime rubs off when Saix touches it -- leaving him with slightly dirtier fingertips, and the book with a slightly cleaner cover.

There isn't a visible title on the spine either, but when Saix finally opens the cover, it becomes evident why: this isn't a book at all.

It's a _journal._ Saix stares at the barely-legible scrawl on the first page, naming the owner on the line provided for the purpose.

"Even," he reads aloud, one finger tracing along the word.

 _"Don't touch that."_

Vexen's voice seems to come from the air directly behind him, sharp and authoritative as it always is, and Saix spins --

There is, of course, nothing there.

Back to the book, then. _Even._ At first Saix wonders, oddly, if there is a second tome lying about, a journal labeled _Odd_ , as would make sense by the twisted calculations that he's assumed Vexen to favor. As soon as he thinks that, he realizes part of what disturbs him so much about this chamber: it feels too _human_ for the Chilly Academic. It feels too real.

He's never thought that Vexen could be anything other than impersonal, and not the type to keep a book labeled with a name from a former life.

* * * *

 _Vexen sits with the newly-christened VII in his laboratory, muttering dire oaths beneath his breath as he roughly prods Saix through what seem like an endless parade of tedious, scientific tests meant to measure his physical condition. The scientist is uninclined to be kind, as Xemnas has deliberately set him this task to irk him: Zexion could do it just as easily, with less fuss, but instead he's been specifically singled out to do it._

 _So far Vexen's taken the basic measurements. On a hunch, he's had Saix strip off his shirt so that he can check on a suspicion he's had since first seeing the the Nobody; to his satisfaction, his hypothesis is proven correct._

 _Underweight for his height, atrophied muscles, Vexen scribbles down briskly on the medical form. An impatient gesture sends Saix obediently stepping off the scale, and Vexen directs him to sit down on the lab bench with another wave of the hand. This isn't really the best place to do this, but it's not as though VII can complain. In fact, the newest Nobody hasn't spoken a word since he got here at Xemnas's direction. Perhaps instructions to maintain silence were part of his orders; whatever the reason may be, Vexen is satisfied that he isn't asking any questions._

 _"We're going to test your eyesight next," he announces. Almost savagely, and certainly without any warning, Vexen flips a pocket flashlight out to check the dilation of Saix's pupils. Finding everything normal, the scientist secretes the penlight back into the folds of his coat, leaving his subject blinking rapidly to clear the color spots from his vision._

 _Vexen turns away, unconcerned, and busies himself taking out what they'll be using for the next test. He finds himself speaking to other Nobody unconsciously, content to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice._

 _"This is an Amsler's grid," Vexen tells Saix; without turning around, he searches for a convenient place where he can prop up the board printed with varying letters. He decides on another lab bench a suitable distance from where VII is sitting now, and moves towards it._

 _"First we'll test the individual strength of each of your eyes," he drones, "and then we'll combine that to -- "_

 _The tap of fingernails on glass alerts Vexen that something is amiss, and he whirls around at breakneck speed, mouth already open to snarl._

 _"Don't **touch** that!"_

 _Caught in the act, VII blinks, frozen with his fingers against a beaker set over a flickering bunsen burner. It's one of the alchemical setups Vexen leaves constantly running; VII doesn't even seem to register the contact of the glass against his hand, glass that must surely be well over the heat of boiling point._

 _"I can't feel anything," is the first thing Saix tells Vexen, although whether he means in his fingers or his chest, the scientist cannot say._

 _The admission is disgustingly vulnerable -- as if Saix is a new puppy or a lost boy, standing there with his eyes on Vexen and his skin searing to blisters._

 _"Then let go of the glass and come here," the scientist orders abruptly, waiting until Saix slowly complies. Vexen holds out his hand expectantly; Saix stares at it before carefully offering his own back, palm-up. The flesh is red and already puffing. Vexen considers the worth of warning the other Nobody, and then simply places his own palm on top of the swelling blisters, summoning ice with as little effort as it takes to blink._

 _Saix finally reacts then, inhaling slowly and holding the breath in his lungs until Vexen lets go._

* * * *

No matter how strange a world may appear on the surface, one constant unifies them all: whenever the living pass away, someone else has to sort through the remains. Physical corpses, worldly possessions, or even family ties; there are remnants left behind after any death, and those remnants linger until they are swept clean.

Xemnas is not a good choice for this task. The Superior has more critical matters to attend to than clean-up duty, and besides, whenever anyone mentions what to _do_ with the extra rooms, Xemnas goes quiet and says nothing. Xigbar and Xaldin excuse themselves hastily, always. The junior members of the Organization scuff their feet and put on awkward expressions -- all except for Axel, who volunteers _much_ too easily for comfort.

So Saix does the job.

He's not sure why Vexen's rooms resist being deconstructed. Zexion's chambers are serenely abandoned, Lexaeus's as well. Marluxia's many plants have been uprooted. Larxene's doors were thrown open, and left that way. Those sectors of the Castle stay quiet, docile; growing older and empty and ownerless.

Only Vexen's persists in claiming that its owner will return at any moment.

Saix is not a scientist like the original six. All he knows of death is that one's body stop working and becomes consumed by rot, back into the soil until what was _you_ becomes something poetic like a flower, or a raindrop, or a bacterial plague.

After being transformed by Darkness, he's assumed that a heart is the same way. Hearts twinkle back to Kingdom Hearts, and then are diffused among the mass of Shadows or perhaps the planet itself. Your body and heart both dissolve. They become recycled, reused.

He's not so certain about the soul.

The one place that Saix does not touch, no matter how many times he visits during his newfound task, is Vexen's bedroom. The door remains modestly shut, although he goes in and out of the other rooms at will, running his hands over everything as though with the intent of memorizing the objects solely by touch. His eyes alone aren't sufficient for capturing them all.

Somewhere in Vexen's rooms, there is knowledge that only the Chilly Academic had. Somewhere, there is a _reason_ for why the Superior always consulted the senior members, but left the others to their own devices.

Somewhere, there is a gap that must be filled, if the Organization is to defend itself against the same betrayals again.

One day, Saix even cleans the tea set off and brews himself a potful of coffee, only to stare at the lightly steaming teacup with blank incomprehension at his own actions. _He_ isn't a scientist. _He_ doesn't need the jolt of caffiene to sustain him through endless hours of research and planning, endless twitching and complaints and irritation over one explosive project or the other.

He drinks the coffee anyway, ink-dark and memory-bitter as it is, because to leave it would be a waste.

Afterwards, he gets up to rinse out the cup, and catches sight of his features reflected in a curve of the sink. Something about the set of his mouth arrests his attention; Saix lets the faucet run, cold water burbling over his hand, and wonders when he grew so confident as to drink from another man's life.

* * * * * *

 _Saix fumbles his way through the castle, his body, and the Organization's hierarchy like a bull in a china shop, uncertain of its worth and completely unconcerned about the upset he leaves in his wake. His powers -- if he has any -- are completely invisible, and do not show up on any of the tests. Strangely, none of the others complain, tolerating the newcomer's clumsiness and decided lack of tact with either amusement, scientific interest, or utter indifference._

 _Vexen is completely disgusted, and he tells Xemnas as much._

 _" **Why** do you humor him?" he complains one day, uncrossing his arms uncomfortably as he fidgets on a lab bench. "He's useless like this. Worse than useless." He speaks as though Saix isn't trailing directly behind Xemnas, wide-eyed and devoted as a well-heeled hound._

 _The Superior, tinkering with something in one of the beakers -- he never asks Vexen for permission to enter the laboratory, just walks in and expects everything to jump up for his use -- diverts enough energy and time to give Vexen a slender smile. "He must learn his limits in his own time, as all of us did," Xemnas intones solemnly. "These are lessons that cannot be rushed."_

 _"Oh, **spare me** ," Vexen retorts. Xemnas can try the All-Knowing Sage act all he wants, but Vexen knows better._

 _Something like humor touches the Superior's eyes, or possibly revenge. "Unless, of course, you're volunteering to take the task of teaching him into your own hands...?"_

 _Vexen blanches. "Never mind."_

 _In the corner, Saix watches, and Saix remembers._

* * * * * *

Ordering Dusks to attend him does nothing to dispel the room's atmosphere of suspicion, and Saix drums his fingers on the teacabinet before he sighs and sends them all away.

He spends the rest of the day walking the Castle again, memorizing the feel of what is left through the skin of his body. Xemnas is a steady hum on the second floor. Xigbar and Xaldin are on the rooftop; Saix can sense their cold sparks of power, reined in deftly under the leash of a spar. Axel is a distant presence lingering at Roxas's side. Luxord is off-world, out on a scouting mission, which leaves only one Nobody left for the Berserker to haunt.

Demyx listens patiently enough when Saix mentions that the work to decommission Vexen's chambers is still on-going, though most of IX's attention is directed to the sitar he is cradling in his lap.

"There's something _wrong_ about those rooms," Saix mutters at last, even though the thought is mostly directed at himself. The musician looks up from his sitar to quirk a brow.

"What are you asking me for?" he wants to know. "It's not like I know anything about Vexen. Ice and water are _way_ different."

This idea baffles Saix, who has never really cared to understand the universe past the basic five elements he's discovered on his own: fire, earth, wind, water, annoyance. "How?"

"Ice doesn't flow," is all that Demyx replies, and then briskly strikes music from the strings.

* * * * * *

After a while, Saix realizes that Demyx is right. Ice _doesn't_ flow: it remains static, locked in place, building up fresh layers of armor. It is a solid mass, and it breaks under pressure.

The comparison doesn't banish the uneasiness in Vexen's rooms, unfortunately.

Nobodies don't have corpses to be remembered by; there are no ashes to be swept into urns or bodies to be wrapped into metal boxes and thrust underground. There is nothing to prove that a Nobody ever existed.

Nothing, except for memory.

* * * * * *

The compulsion to return to Vexen's rooms is an inexplicable one, but Saix attempts to justify it anyway -- there is _knowledge_ to be found here, he tells himself, borrowed experience that can teach him to be the supporting defender that Xemnas needs. With the loss of the others, Saix must fulfill their parts, or at least approximate them. And that is something he can do only by learning their patterns of thought; how they worked through things and how they looked at the world. Vicariousness is how Saix has always learned best: absorbed impressions, and instinct.

He tells himself this, but the idea seems hollow, weak. His body refuses to make that final breach, that final violation of the privacy of Vexen's life. He cannot step through the door.

For what feels like the fifth time that day, Saix lingers at the threshold of Vexen's bedroom. His hand brushes the handle like an illicit lover. The metal is cool, and somehow this fact strikes Saix as odd; he hadn't realized until then that he half-expected it to be warm from another's touch.

Finally he gathers his wits with a frown, and depresses the latch.

The lights are off in the bedroom. A faint hint of bleach touches his nose; a remnant of the laboratories, or possibly the bathroom adjacent. Nothing greets him but dust and still air, and Saix wonders what made him think there would be anything there in the first place.

* * * * *

With the last and perhaps most sacred part of Vexen's rooms breached, Saix feels oddly lighter. It makes him wonder just what _relief_ is composed of, if a person should not be able to experience fear. A dim memory of danger, perhaps; uncertainty haunts every being indiscriminately.

* * * * *

The change happens slowly, like grains of sand that build up to an avalanche.

Before now, Saix has always made his way down to Vexen's rooms from elsewhere in the castle. He does not always intend it, but his feet seem to know their path better than he does, and he is content to trust their wisdom in this.

But eventually, impulse and practicality begin to converge, and Saix finds himself taking to spending more time in Vexen's rooms, sprawled on the armchair as he pores over the scientist's journals.

The first time he falls asleep there, he wakes to an unholy crick in his neck, and decides that he's never sleeping sitting up again.

The second time, and the third, and the fourth, Saix makes the same promise again. And again. And again. He migrates around the room like a lost rabbit, endlessly seeking soft ground. None of the chairs are comfortable. The small sofa is not long enough to fit his legs properly, forcing him to prop his ankles up along the back, and Saix wakes up with his feet buzzing from the circulation being cut off.

Inevitably, the aches in his body remind him of the unused bed just one room over.

He swears -- he promises himself many things when he realizes how _practical_ it would be if he simply stayed there, rather than travel from room to room and world to world like a distracted train-jumper. Logic nags at his careful defenses. It's ridiculous for him to be superstitious; half his strength comes from listening to his instincts, and to deny them is a fool's game. He does not have to do anything more than lie on the mattress. On the covers. It's a _bed_ , and his muscles are complaining, and besides, he can go back to his own quarters the next morning.

But on the night that he's finally tired enough to sleep in Vexen's room, he doesn't promise himself anything at all.

* * * * * *

In one of Vexen's books, he finds an equation which is underlined twice -- a rare emphasis from the level-headed academic. The figures are strange; there are symbols instead of numbers, and Saix doesn't know what half of them are supposed to mean when they're mixed with letters as well.

But in the margins he finds a few notations, words tight and cramped together. _Role of the observer_ is there, and also something about cats and boxes. The rest -- energy eigenstates, complex scalar fields, and an odd reference to a principle that's supposed to be deliberately uncertain -- blurs together, and Saix is finally forced to move on.

The equation shows up again, though, this time in one of Vexen's private journals. Among the pages labeled as _Even_ , Saix finds the same symbols recurring, this time with Xemnas's name attached. From the look of it, Vexen has been trying to analyze the Superior through mathematics.

Saix can't make any sense out of that either.

The books confuse themselves for the rest of the day, refusing to string together in a logical chain of formulas and equations and results. Weary of forcing his way through science, Saix puts them all aside, and wonders what else could solve the mystery of Xemnas.

* * * * * *

He wakes later that night, hard and hating it.

The room is too hot. Maybe it's Vexen's sheets; for a man whose elemental affinity was _ice_ , his covers are heavy and thick. They tangle around Saix's legs as he tries to roll to a more comfortable position, trapping his ankles and rubbing his knees together. His own room would have been better to sleep in -- but Saix had been too tired to summon the concentration needed to open a portal, and Vexen's bed had looked more comfortable than the floor.

He shifts to his side with a curse. The motion pull the top cover tight across his groin, and in the haze of half-sleep, it's a contact that he doesn't _need_ right now. When the Darkness stole his heart, it could have been considerate and erased physical reactions too.

After several frustrated minutes go by, Saix growls into his pillow. He fishes one hand down through the sheets, keeping his eyes closed as he resigns himself to accept basic facts of life.

His fingers know their job. Their touch is familiar as they snake through curling hairs. He pushes roughly into the cradle of his palm, lethargic and needy all at once, moisture dotting his thumb.

Being alone is a pallid fantasy. But in his dreams, it's the Superior there: head bowed, back arched, tight against Saix's body. And Saix is thrusting deep inside _him_ ; they move in jerky synchronization, Xemnas gasping with the intensity of a god, bucking back against Saix's hips. The Superior's hair is white silk on sweat, and he moves with a wantonness that he would never exhibit in waking life.

But this is a dream, and harmless, and Saix tells himself this until he finally comes, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaws ache.

He drops back into sleep almost instantly afterwards, his muscles relaxing in small fractions as he lets himself find oblivion in Vexen's sheets.

;* * * * * *

The first sign of trouble, incongruously enough, comes from an entirely unexpected source: Roxas.

The Key of Destiny isn't talkative in nature, or really much of _anything_ in nature, and for that Saix is relieved. Bland as XIII is, the Luna Diviner appreciates that the boy doesn't make the attempt to falsify emotion where there is none. Perhaps it's simply natural for Roxas, because of the lack of memory; without past experiences to cross-reference the present moment to, XIII cannot react in anything but a logical fashion. Roxas' stolidity is an odd comfort, but Saix has no inkling of what it is that Axel sees when he looks at the boy, what makes him slink around the edges of XIII's presence like a scolded pup.

As far as Saix is concerned, Roxas is a weapon -- perhaps the only one they have against the Keyblade Master, now that Namine is gone.

So the two of them exist in different worlds, and that's sufficient for them both and still explains nothing when Roxas addresses Saix out of the blue one day.

"Hey."

Saix stops abruptly, wondering if the word is prelude to an attack.

Surprisingly, the boy doesn't add anything. He simply stands there, staring at Saix like a hound who's caught a particularly odd scent, one that it doesn't want to confront.

The Diviner blinks back.

Finally XIII moves on, leaving Saix alone, and with the uncharacteristic urge to snap a taunt in the younger Nobody's direction.

* * * * *

The first incident is a fluke. The second is harder to brush off.

Saix has crossed the Castle's lower floors several times over before he forces himself to clamber up to the higher balconies, breaking free from the marble halls into open air.

He's so caught up in his quest to resolve all the problems of the world by _walking_ that it takes him by surprise when he turns a corner of the walkways and finds another man there: Xaldin, who is blinking back with equal astonishment.

III is another of the senior members who Saix knows little about. The dragoon's hours are fairly incompatible with his own at best, completely divergent at worst. Their brief interactions have always been based around combat, around fighting, and the mutual understanding that there is a language purely physical which no science can touch.

"VII," Xaldin acknowledges. And then, as naturally as breathing, "Up for some practice?"

Before Saix can respond aye or nay, Xaldin has already pushed himself off the malformed gutterspout and hurtled forward.

By the end of it, they're both breathing heavily, although Xaldin's lips have a hint of smirk to them, as though he's just waiting for any excuse to clash one more time. Saix almost thinks he might be up for it; to struggle is good, is to really _live._ Not many others really understand that.

Xaldin's next words, however, send chills down Saix's spine, crackling down his vertebrae like unseen sleet.

"You know," Xaldin remarks, "Vexen used to fight quite a lot like that. Guarded movements, conservative swings -- " he _does_ smirk now, canines sharpening with the motion. "Well, let's just say he was a lot _easier_ before he figured out how to summon a shield. You could tell he was an amateur without it."

Saix's hand shifts on the grip of his sword. He hadn't realized that he'd reversed the grip -- blade down instead of up, used for parrying rather than attack -- and he's not sure he likes what it implies.

"I suppose you're ending up like him," the dragoon concludes, calling his lances to him with a wave of his hand, and turning away.

* * * * * *

One of the Organization makes for two of them, makes for three and four and more as Saix continues being surprised by minor confrontations. Suddenly it feels as if the other Nobodies are _everywhere_ , strangers behind their faces, watching him at every turn. The paranoia would be idiotic, if Saix did not already recognize the symptoms: he's been immersed for far too long collecting sensory information, filtering through the impressions of another person's past. He's reading too much into nothing at all.

It's a surprise, when he runs into VIII; with the Key of Destiny occupying most of Axel's attention, Saix has ended up seeing very little of the other man. In fact, Saix hadn't expected to find anyone else stalking down the back halls of the western wing, but the second he rounds one of the corners, the Diviner almost instantly has to throw out an arm to keep from slamming into Axel headlong.

The chance encounter isn't an event Axel had predicted either -- if his expression is any indication -- but he recovers with remarkable grace, giving a saucy grin and tipping Saix a wink.

Normally, Saix wouldn't even notice Axel's theatrics, brushing them off as easily as water slides off his coat. Instead he finds himself suddenly bristling, caught up in a strange sense of indignation, and a hissing in his ears that could almost be a warning against VIII's wiles.

He shakes it off as a ghost-memory of irritation, nothing more -- but not before Axel catches sight of the slight wince in his facial expression.

"Hey," VIII interjects, and greeting is so exactly like Roxas's that Saix wonders which one of them started imitating the other first. But out of Axel's mouth, the word is smug; it is sly and fat on its own machinations. Axel's weight shifts in an easy slide of his hips. He's turned and facing Saix before the Diviner can react, both hands carefully empty of weapons. "What's up?"

Saix meets the other's eyes for only a moment before glancing away. "Nothing."

"Oh yeah?" Axel is never far from games of power; sensing vulnerability, the other Nobody grins. "'Cuz for a minute there, you looked like something was... _bothering_ you."

Thwarted and unwilling to yield ground, Saix tries to stare the other man down. "It is none of your concern."

Something in his gaze forces Axel to suddenly remember caution -- VIII makes a wavering _hrmmm_ and sidles back a step, out of arm's reach. The backpedaling is methodical, as discreet as a servant or a paid killer. His shoulders are hunched low, chin tilted slightly up; Axel makes faux-submission look as graceful as dancing.

Neither one of them breaks eye contact.

They have most of the length of the hall between them before Axel dares to speak again. "You know," he throws back, his smile a mockery of camaderie, "if you ever need someone to confide in, I'm _always_ here for you."

Saix lifts one hand in warning, fingers poised to snap for his Berserkers, and the other Nobody vanishes with a laugh.


	2. Substituting the Variables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he wanders further into the depths of what Vexen once was, Saix finds the fine line from where reality ends and insanity begins increasingly difficult to draw.

If he can remember thought, then he can remember _self_. If he can remember taste and touch and smell, he can remember what it is to be alive --

* * * * *

Two months in, and Saix is as uncertain as when he started. Marluxia's rooms remain sour with machination, and Saix does not care to linger in them. He might have expected a man so fond of flowers to have rooms that smelled like a pollen cocktail, a battleground of flora, but instead Marluxia's quarters reek of a thousand blossoms left to rot. The air of those rooms is choked with ill-will and seething resentment, prickling at Saix intensely enough to cause discomfort. No amount of open windows helps dispel the miasma. Marluxia’s rooms died along with their schemer; like XI, they are impossible to ignore even after their lives have moved on.

Larxene's, by contrast, feel like the sky after a thunderstorm: vacant and desolate, dried husks scoured clean of life. They had never been cramped to begin with, as Larxene cared little for personal possessions. Now, robbed of the scant protection that XII's prickly presence had always provided, their emptiness seems to yawn even larger, lonely and wide. There is nothing there for Saix to find.

He wonders, briefly, if there ever would have been anything at all.

Lexaeus's rooms gave him a sense of quiet strength, of dignity and buried wisdom. Saix had absorbed the taste of that air before respectfully closing the doors, and moving on.

Zexion's chambers had been strange. Saix had expected the Schemer to guard his secrets as closely in private as he did everywhere else, but Zexion had kept a fairly straightforward house. Everything of any importance had been neatly sorted into boxes, labeled for convenience, and the berserker wondered if in some way, perhaps VI had anticipated his own demise. Whatever the truth of the matter is, Zexion's forethought made his rooms easy to deconstruct.

But Vexen's are an eternal confusion, refusing to be consumed by Saix's questing mind. Instead of scientific detachment, IV has a teapot. He used fine china to brew coffee instead of tea leaves, kept journals labeled with old names, and left a hard kernel of something unidentifiable embedded in one of the pillows.

The bulge digs mercilessly into the nape of Saix's neck for a week before the Diviner finally admits discomfort and fishes for it. His quest uncovers a white paper twist that crinkles when he pinches it open. As he does, a strange, spicy odor stings his nose; his mouth suddenly waters in curiosity, and he instinctively touches his tongue to the amber ball revealed inside.

One slightly panicked moment later -- the time it takes for him to get over the relief that he hasn't inadvertently licked some kind of fancy _mothball_ \-- Saix registers the sweetness blooming across his taste buds.

Of all things for him to find hidden in Vexen's pillows, ginger candy is not one he expected.

Assuming that Saix had thought there would be anything at all. Other Nobodies might have tucked books among their bedclothes, or weapons -- even Zexion had lodged a pen in the gap between the bed frame and the wall. Vexen's late-night snacking seems a habit better suited for Larxene, or possibly Marluxia. The scientist had never seemed big on treats.

If nothing else, at least the candy is no longer in a position to irritate his already-aching neck. Saix deposits the stale nub into the wastebasket, wrapper still bleeding half-melted sugar. As for the stickiness on his fingers, he finds himself at a loss. Finally, he decides to wipe them off on the sheets, leaving trails of tacky fluid on the linen before turning over and curling into himself.

He is not very surprised when his dreams are filled with scent. Human musk mixes with spice and honey. Ginger stings his tongue.

In the morning, Saix quells his sudden craving for sweets by putting three tablespoons of sugar into his coffee.

He occupies himself the rest of the day by continuing to browse through the scientist's journals. For all the density of text, they’re not overly difficult to read. Vexen writes plainly enough, with little embellishment -- perhaps out of a disdain for ciphers, or simply out of confidence that he would always be there to protect his words if need be. Encryption might simply be an unnecessary nuisance to a man of Vexen's sensibilities; the effort could be better spent on more productive things.

Whatever the reason, IV has made no effort to disguise his words in incomprehensible metaphor and verse. Even so, Saix supposes the scientist's handwriting is a code in itself, cramped and illegible by most standards: a true academic's scrawl.

Saix does not have any trouble reading it -- at least, not in the way it matters. It's tricky to guess if an 'a' is meant to be an 'e', but Vexen's script speaks clearly in every other aspect. The writing is slanted and jagged whenever the scientist was excited or rushed, elaborate when idle, and schooled into ranks upon ranks of ink and lead when recording the results of an experiment.

The Luna Diviner may not always understand Vexen's theories, but on occasion, he thinks he can catch a sense of what the other man was thinking. For now, that will have to suffice. In the end, he doesn't care about half the experiments that interested the scientist; what matters are _impressions_ , and those remain in abundance.

To help sort through the tangle, Saix starts to read the journals aloud. Not for something as sentimental as comfort. He has never been afraid of being alone, not even when he still _had_ a heart, and so he lacks any memory of loneliness to reference on the subject.

But he reads Vexen's journal entries in his own voice anyway, trying to learn the shape of the man's thoughts by reviving them through himself.

At first the language stumbles. Vexen picks words without a care for how they sound together. Scientific jargon clashes with careless shorthand. As Demyx would say, Saix thinks gloomily, Vexen’s words don’t _flow._ They crawl like glaciers, carving gouges out of the page rather than rolling smoothly along.

"'And the additive function of Dusks implies,'" Saix finds himself reciting aloud one day, making no effort to conceal his boredom or to keep it from twisting his words, "'that either I don't know what I'm doing or I have no taste in furniture. In the event of my death, I shall resolve to find better chairs.'"

 _No,_ he finds himself corrected instantly, a whispered memory of what could have been Vexen's affronted dignity. _Implies that the mutability levels of each generation can be increased by a level proportionate to their base complexity. Get it **right.**_

He argues with himself for the rest of the afternoon, simply to pass the hours. Each time he quips one of Vexen's lines wrong, he's quick to imagine the scientist's lofty pride leaping to defense.

The diversion keeps him occupied as he delves through a fresh stack of journals; these ones are labeled as eight years old from one of Vexen's previous labs, which apparently had to be shut down after an unfortunate incident with chemical beakers. Spatters of multicolored fluid have dried into the covers of the journal, seeping into the pages to leave a sticky gilt along the paper's edge. From one meticulously scribbled note, Saix gathers that the cause was 60% probable to be a mistimed levitation spell, 23% to be an explosive reaction between two composite substances, and 17% to be Xigbar.

Somehow, this doesn't surprise him. It's only after a moment that he realizes he hadn't known not to be surprised.

* * * * *

When the games moves on from the journals to the rest of Vexen's possessions, Saix can't say he's relieved. Or surprised. It was only a matter of time, he figured, before the soul of Vexen could finally be extracted from the potpourri of his life. Even Marluxia's rooms hadn't been this difficult to examine; then again, Marluxia's goals were ultimately very simple, once one knew to look for treachery.

He notices the change first while searching through one of Vexen's wardrobes. Each of them have their own supply of coats -- and spares, in the event of accident, bloodshed, or Keyblade Masters -- and Vexen had been no different. His choice of tailoring, however, had involved a narrower waist and wider bell of the jacket as it came off the hips. Not a particularly masculine look, in Saix's opinion. Xaldin, certainly, would never be caught dead in a jacket that _flared._

Just as Saix is pulling on the sleeve of one coat and wondering how thin Vexen's arm must have been to fit inside, he hears another man clearing his throat.

 _Excuse me._ Polite, yet firm. _Those are **my** clothes._

"You're dead, you know," Saix tells the heaviness in the air beside him, invisible but real. "I can say anything I want about your lack of physique."

 _I know,_ Vexen says, and even for a ghost his voice is as alive and dry as the rest of him ever was. _But I heard you calling me._

Saix's face goes flat in instant denial. "I was not."

 _Yes, you were._

Dropping the coat unceremoniously on the bottom of the wardrobe, Saix closes the door firmly, and turns away.

But the commentary doesn't end there. Later on, Saix hears Vexen complain during tea. As he reads -- _don't leave the books open like that, get a bookmark **at least**._ Dinner is brought down by a pair of Dusks, and as Saix eats, he does so to the tune of, _don't drip any on the tablecloth, were you raised by animals? Please. If you're going to be in my rooms, at **least** pretend to be civilized. Did you file those books back in the right order? There **is** an order, you know. Or did you even bother to learn the proper form of the alphabet?_

It gets to the point where Saix finally sets his teacup down hard. Ignoring the protest on the air, he repeats, "You're dead."

 _If I wasn't before, I would be now after seeing you mistreat my personal library._

"You're dead," Saix says again, and then, feeling more than a bit helpless, "Shouldn't that make you less vocal?"

His answer is a disdainful snort.

Saix doesn't know if being divested of his body has also separated Vexen from the ability to act like a mature adult instead of a contrary teenager, but he refuses to play any further. Calling the scientist -- like a pet, or a sheep that's been lost, or just someone _looking_ for someone else, which is ridiculous. It's all irrational and the bored memories of Saix's mind inform him that he doesn't like it.

As much as he doesn't like _anything_ , he reminds himself.

He refuses to acknowledge the ghost of Vexen any further, leaving the scientist's quarters early and seeking out the Superior. But when he asks -- tactfully -- for Xemnas to come down and look at Vexen's old things, the Superior stares, and then agrees.

Xemnas stands there for several moments in Vexen's room, holding himself very still, like an animal in black leather and closed fists. But when he turns back around, his face is as carefully bemused as ever. "And?"

"And?" Saix mimics back the word rather blankly. Part of him had hoped that Xemnas would solve this dilemma by instantly recognizing the extraneous presence in the room; part of him had never planned further than now. "Don't you think there's something strange here?"

"Everything about Even was strange." There's a different tone to Xemnas's voice, one that Saix has never heard before; it's touched by some memory that the Berserker has no comparison for. The sound fades quickly, before it can be defined, and then Xemnas is professional once more. "Vexen, rather. Finish sorting through this, please. There is other business to attend to."

"What -- " Saix starts to ask, but the Superior is already out the door, slipping away into a portal hastily opened in the hall.

He can't see Vexen's ghost, but he can sense something like satisfaction tainting the neutrality of the room's atmosphere. "Why couldn't the Superior sense you?" Saix asks. He's not sure what makes him speak aloud, and the sound of his own voice being absorbed into the walls and ceiling nearly makes him jump.

There is nothing but silence for a few minutes, long enough that Saix begins to think that he has been imagining the strange presence in these rooms -- but then the response comes, slow and thoughtful, and he finds himself once again having to re-evaluate his sanity.

 _I don't know,_ Vexen admits. _Perhaps Xemnas is unable to sense these things. Xehanort always preferred focusing on his own research subjects; this may lie too deeply outside his current realms of study for him to register._

That sounds a little more like the scientist that Saix knows, and so without thinking, he dares to speak again.

"And I?" Saix asks. "Why can I sense you?"

 _Not a clue,_ the coolness collapses in a flash, and the shrug is nearly audible. _Maybe you're just insane._

They both mull over the concept in silence.

 _I thought,_ the spirit whispers again, _for one moment, Xemnas really did see me. But then he turned away._

* * * * *

When Saix works up the opportunity to ask the Superior again, obliquely, about Vexen's rooms, Xemnas doesn't acknowledge the words.

He never comes down to visit them again.

* * * * *

 _Do you remember,_ Vexen's ghost asks one day, as Saix is sorting through the contents of an archival box, _the last thing you ever said to me? When I was alive._

"No," Saix replies. And that is that.

It's a lie, though.

He remembers it perfectly.

 _When Saix finally found himself at Vexen's doors, it was to discover that the scientist had firmly wedged himself in the doorway, for all the world as immovable and belligerent as a badger interrupted in his mid-autumn meanderings. The pose was a casual gesture, meant to disarm -- the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw calculated to best display his indifference to Saix's untimely arrival on his doorstep._

 _The bluff was a failure, in more ways than one, if only because Saix could see Vexen's fingernails worrying individual splinters out of the doorframe -- one by painstaking one, leaving slivers of wood buried in the tender flesh of his hands. The motion was almost hypnotic, in its even-ness, and for a moment, Saix was almost caught._

 _Realizing his own fixation, Saix frowned and shook the trance off -- he had a missive to deliver. The fact that Vexen was effectively forming a living barricade to his quarters, bristly as a porcupine, was of little consequence._

 _Before Saix could clear his throat to impart the Superior's orders, Vexen cut him off, already shaking his head. "I know what you're here to say," the scientist said, making a poor attempt to feign boredom. His gaze reminded Saix of a hunted animal, cunning yet terrified at the same time. "I'm wanted at Castle Oblivion, I'll be working under Marluxia, so on and so forth. I am **more** than aware of this; your presence here is unnecessary." _

_Pushing himself off the doorframe, Vexen stood before Saix, hands tucked into his arms as he continued relentlessly._

 _"The Superior's briefed me about it himself, and he's been **very** explicit about what he expects of me," he said, baring his teeth in an unvoiced snarl. "So why don't you go run back to him like a good little puppy and tell him that Vexen's **got the message** and doesn't need to be reminded about it at every turn?" IV smiled, a little too tightly to be honest, and slumped against the door once more, lanky frame obstructing the way._

 _At a loss for words -- both because this was the most he'd ever heard Vexen say in one breath, and because IV's diatribe essentially covered everything he'd been sent here to say -- Saix decided to settle, instead, for a question. There was an agitation to Vexen's movements he had never seen before, a restless, aching energy that sparked off answering shivers in his bones. It's there, after all, where the thirst for the kill used to lie so close to his marrow; the traces of the hunting beast in him had not been dulled by his lack of a heart. Such desires were basic, and instinctive, and to deny them was to deny what little humanity he had left in him._

 _"Are you so bitter," Saix asked, with curiosity that was almost genuine, "that the Superior's cast you aside?" He meant to add more after that, to clarify his sentiment -- Is working beneath Marluxia's command so repulsive? -- but he didn't get a chance._

 _Vexen's skin, never tan to begin with, paled to chalk. A beat later and fury sent blood rushing back to his cheeks, a vengeful tide of purple that flooded his face from the nape of his neck and onwards._

 _"Get out," he whispered. Then, louder: "Get **out!** "_

 _Saix wasn't sure what made him answer, but the word tripped and fell from his mouth before he could think to take it back._

 _"No."_

 _And then Vexen --_

 _( -- whirls into his rooms and slams the door in Saix's face; that is the last conversation the berserker ever has with him, the last he sees or hears of the other man until they receive the news that Castle Oblivion is gone, gone, fallen into ruin and Garden knows what else -- )_

 _\-- reached forward, fists seizing into Saix's jacket like a swimmer grasping for land, and pulled him down for a kiss that could've broken worlds._

 _Saix's first reaction was to rear back, though whether it would have been in shock and disgust or something other, even he could not have said. Vexen's hands clamped firmly into his clothing, the grip of his fingers becoming tighter and tighter in fitful jerks, and Saix **could not pull away** , mesmerized and weakened all at once by the intensity behind the cool lips and clicking teeth. _

_"Try and lick your master's feet with that mouth now," Vexen had snarled as soon as he had a moment, but without any real force in his words, air robbed by his gasping. Saix didn't respond, too occupied in trying to yank Vexen's hands off his jacket; he missed whatever Vexen said after that, because the scientist had leaned back in, and Saix's lower lip had suddenly tasted like blood._

 _At some point, Saix realized he was **answering** Vexen's mettle, fighting the only way he could think of by answering the kiss with equal force. That, **that** makes him jerk back -- or try to. Vexen, unbalanced, followed him down, and they fell to the floor in a tangle of hate and spit and --_

And then Saix wakes up, eyes itching with brine, and thinks: _That was not how it happened._

Vexen had not gripped his shoulders with the same desperation of a drowning man. His mouth had not felt like an animal's, hungry and sharp; he had _not_ been angry with a bitterness that lasted through the loss of a heart, a memory everlasting of being second-best to everyone.

There could never have been _want_ of any sort. Not real, not imagined, not memory.

Saix wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand and tells himself that he would never have kissed Vexen, had the choice been given to him. Maybe if Vexen -- no. Not Vexen, not ever, and particularly not while they were _both_ growling caustic words about Xemnas, competing for attention, because when everything else has been stripped away, only the presence of another being affirms the new reality --

Saix scrubs his face with a palm until he's certain that he's fully awake. The dream leaves him out of sorts, unwilling to go back to sleep, so he makes a fresh cup of coffee and stares at it until the morning comes.

* * * * *

On the fifth week of his mismatched sleep, Saix dreams that he dies.

There's blood, which is to be expected, and some violence. He's pitted against an unseen opponent who shrugs off each of his blows, turns his Nobodies against him, and breaks one of Saix's arms in the process. There's blood, and a horrible cracking _heat_ along Saix's back, and then nothing.

Then cold fingers brush his chin and pull his face upwards, and Saix finds himself staring into a familiar-but-not pair of sea-green eyes.

"You little idiot," Vexen says softly. "Now what did you have to go and get killed for?"

The touch is so gentle that Saix gapes at first -- an inelegant form of surprise, but when had Vexen ever been kind?

The scientist's hand drifts down, tracing along Saix's neck. "Now you're stuck here," he whispers, keeping the Diviner's gaze trapped under his own stare. The tip of one finger dances along skin and muscle, tracing small, intimate circles on Saix's body. "Now..."

Saix's breath is thin in his lungs. "Now?"

"Now there's no one left alive to keep thinking about me," Vexen finishes, and then both his hands tighten on Saix's throat.

And then Saix wakes up gasping, alert with that horrible non-fear that's replaced actual terror since losing his heart: alert and calm and convinced that he's about to die again the very next second. Die somehow. Die in a dream twice-over, or maybe just lose his heart _again_ , or -- the Dusks come when he calls, come and turn on all the lights and heat up water for coffee, and Saix spends the rest of the night on edge with the taste of cream souring his tongue.

Despite that, he doesn't got back to his own bed.

* * * * * *

If he can _remember_ thought, then he can remember self. If he can remember taste and touch and smell -- the feeling of paper in his hands, the warmth of coffee in his mouth. He will remember and he will exist, and he will _remember_ \--

* * * * * *

After a while, Saix realizes that he's stopped wondering how insane he might be going, or how much of Vexen he might be hallucinating. He is, after all, the Luna Diviner. A title which is only one step away from _lunacy._

Instead the questions have slowly become: where is Lexaeus's ghost? Where is Zexion's presence? If the rest of the Organization dies, will they be faced with Marluxia and Larxene once more?

If Saix dies, will he exist forever like this -- haunting back rooms that no one visits, making snippy commentaries on the state of the carpet?

As soon as he thinks that, the berserker decides suddenly that he never wants to find out.

He continues to seek out information in the rooms of the dead, hunting for their voices and mannerisms as primly as a lady in search of a new hat. None of their habits shape themselves out of nothingness as readily as Vexen's -- as if, out of all the destroyed Nobodies, only the Chilly Academic truly desired to _live._ Desired so much that he was willing to infuse his possessions with numerous quirks and habits and characteristics, like a miser stuffing a mattress with any object that came to hand, no matter how tarnished.

The image of Vexen intrudes on Saix's sleep more often now, slipping into the usual flesh-driven lusts that plague any physical body. Sometimes Saix's hands find themselves tangling in light brown hairs -- though how they got there, Saix does not ever recall. Sometimes the tanned skin of Xemnas becomes a paler one of ice.

Saix blames the sheets, which still smell like the researcher, and probably always will.

Either way, he forces himself to wake whenever he notices his sleep twisting off course. Fantasies about the Superior are normal enough; Saix wants nothing to do with the Chilly Academic. _Those_ dreams always become strange and desperate, like two animals rutting together because they have no other outlet they can risk.

The lack of decent rest leaves him bleary in the mornings. In revenge, he develops a taste for coffee, and sets about demolishing Vexen's stash.

"Chasing ghosts again, Saix?" Xigbar calls offhandedly one day after a morning conference, and for a moment Saix cannot move, cannot breathe, something _unspeakable_ clutching at his insides. Has his secret been discovered? Have his conversations with Vexen been witnessed? His reaction is not fear, _cannot_ be fear -- he tells himself -- for he lacks the essential components for honest terror.

But it would be awkward if his superstitions were ferreted out.

One beat after the pause extends too long to be casual, Saix realizes the Freeshooter means it as a casual joke. "No," he responds curtly, ignoring the now-avidly curious look on Xigbar's face. "I'm only doing my job."

Xigbar grins, grins and tilts his head like a boneless cat. "'kay," he quips, an idle, careless word. "Keep being a good little Diviner, then."

* * * * * *

One day, Saix discovers that Vexen can touch him -- or more accurately, Vexen discovers that he can touch Saix.

The first time Vexen notices it, it's some tiny, quiet triviality. All his attempts to manipulate the objects around him have failed; no amount of willpower or mental discipline causes them to react to his touch. The handicap is one which he should, logically, be able to dismiss. After all, he has his wits; what kind of scientist would he be if he could not be satisfied with that?

But one afternoon while he eavesdrops over Saix's shoulder, Vexen notices that the hairs on the back of VII's head -- which he hovers over more often than anyone would ever consider to be healthy -- are _moving._

At first, he wonders why they seem to be waving in synch. A moment later, he realizes it's because of him -- _him_ , breathing even in the afterlife, a parody of even his former half-existence as a Nobody. It's _his_ actions that stir the fine, short hairs on the back of Saix's head, fluttering back and forth like tiny divining rods.

Responding to his presence. Responding to _his_ breath. Fascinated despite himself, Vexen reaches forward to touch --

Saix's tosses his head irritably, like a restless horse with an itch, but not before Vexen sees silver-blue strands bend and bow beneath his fingers.

He tries again. At first his hand only passes through the fine strands, but then he _concentrates_ and remembers what it was like to want to _exist_ \-- remembering begging, remembering wanting to _live_ \-- and again those hairs shift, parted by careful millimeters.

"Vexen."

Caught in -- he's not sure what -- the scientist pauses. _Yes?_

"Your room has terrible insulation. No wonder you're dead."

 _ **I** never found it to be cold,_ Vexen informs him primly, but his irritation is barely there, easily overlooked in his moment of triumph, and he doesn't even mind when Saix gets up and stomps over to the doors to shut out any mysterious drafts.

To be a ghost is to be caught in the role of an observer, forever watching without the power of influence. Vexen can see, but he cannot touch. Vexen can listen, but he cannot always be heard.

And yet even this is more than what he had before Saix came.

Vexen remembers being trapped in clammy fog, in a field of white noise, and being alone. He remembers being caught in the memory of what a body was like, and of what a heart used to be. For a brief, shuddering moment he can almost pull all those scattered thoughts together again, gathering them up like so many broken bones and muscles and organs.

Then he starts to rub his eyes with a hand and realize that he _no longer has one_.

He remembers the desire to give in, to give up, to pass into oblivion a second time over: overwhelming and relentless like the pound of the sea.

Vexen does not remember how it was, finally, that he found his way back.

But what he cannot forget is the voice that led him there.

* * * * *

 _"You're dead, you know."_

I know. But I heard you calling me.

 _"I was not."_

Yes, you were.

* * * * *

Eventually, Vexen finds himself weighing the worth of telling Saix that to rifle through a dead man's belongings -- to pick apart the things that defined his life -- is as good as a challenge, as good as rattling the bones in a grave. Does the berserker expect to be able to erase the remnants of a life unmolested? Does he think that the dead will not rise to defend their own?

Something rises in Vexen's throat, imagined but real at the same time. He tries to clings to his pale anger, his ersatz rage, but it slips through his fingertips each time. His own thoughts are too insubstantial to hold. To be caught in this half-state of decay is impossibly crippling, for now he lacks both the power of conviction and the certainty of the living.

Every moment Vexen spends in the waking world is borrowed time, and he is never more keenly aware of it than when Saix's attention wavers and he feels himself starting to come unmade.

Vexen cannot hate _Saix_ , for odd as it is, he is grateful to be remembered, grateful to be anything but alone.

But he can hate what Saix has _done._

Whenever Vexen sees the berserker looking through his possessions or sleeping in his bed, Vexen would like nothing more than to take him by the shoulders and shake him, and scream, _That is **mine**_ with a voice that he no longer has throat or tongue or air to shape.

But being remembered feels far too good, and every time Saix speaks his name into the darkness, Vexen can pretend, for a moment, that he's still alive.

Vexen has lost his heart and his body now, but his soul remains: the most eternal part of him, he thinks, but also the most useless. Almost as useless as a heart. Without hands to carry out orders, thoughts alone are futile. Without hands to touch, and feet to move and lungs to breathe -- and late at night, Vexen wonders if it's possible for a spirit to go _insane_ from various forms of deprivation.

Emotional, no. Physical, maybe.

Maybe.

But he can see his surroundings, and he can remember feelings, and he can _remember_ thoughts; if memory is the sole thing keeping him alive, then Vexen can't afford to let it go.

If Saix is the only one who can perceive him, then he'll have to take what he can get.

* * * * * *

At some point in their bizarre conversations, something changes. Vexen no longer spends his time grousing about the topic at hand, speaking only about the activities which Saix is involved in. Instead, he demands information. Conversation. _Words_ , any form of attention possible, any acknowledgement that he is there.

It's bad enough that Saix realizes he's getting to the point where, if he had a heart, he'd be using it to become seriously _annoyed_. Saix does not exist to provide IV with the daily news. If anything, the illusion of the scientist is only there to be used by _him_ ; the memory of Vexen is a tool to understand the past that went on between the original founding members, all so Saix can fill that gap more efficiently, and from there improve on his own role within the hierarchy.

But the time is not entirely ill-spent. Saix has learned more about the Organization than he expected; more importantly, he has learned more about Xemnas. The dignity of Lexaeus's rooms, the clarity of Zexion's -- all contribute to a sense of how the original six members first made things work. He teases the _feel_ of their influence out of the gaps left behind, the undercurrents that he'd never had a chance to notice before they were gone. He guesses the reasons for the particular architecture of the Castle, and why certain rooms are placed closer together. He learns what meshes best with Xemnas's quirky temperament.

The next time he takes a mission from the Superior -- the man looking, for a fleeting moment, harried as he passes over the briefing folder -- Saix does not wait to be dismissed, but only bows and opens a portal without wasting any time.

He has the satisfaction of noticing surprise jump like a spark over Xemnas's face.

Hallucinating Vexen is a tolerable risk -- so long as Saix can keep the scientist at an arm's length, the certainty of _deceased_ in his mind. Sight becomes a necessary barometer, his own self-defense. With it, Saix can keep track of his own sanity, keeping their encounters readily divided between those which come during sleep, and those which come when he is awake. Between fantasy, and reality.

Between the living and the dead.

Old wives may say that seeing is believing, but in the heart of Vexen's rooms, Saix's eyes are the only sense he has that is not malfunctioning.

He may hear Vexen's voice in his waking hours, may sleep in the other man's bed and be swallowed by an unfamiliar scent, may think he feels the chill of fingers on his skin and taste cold spit on his tongue -- but it is only in dreams, _his_ dreams, that they possess visible form and shape.

This is how Saix knows he is awake: when Vexen is nothing more than a biting voice in dead air, a retort caught in rapidly distorting glass.

This is how Saix knows he cannot afford to lose his already-tenuous definition of existence.

* * * * * *

Vexen could have told Saix differently: of all the tools at a human being's disposal, one's senses are the most unreliable.

There is no empirical evidence for the soul -- no matter how carefully they tried to measure it back in Radiant Garden, with their test tubes and counters and darkness extractors -- but it is real anyway.

* * * * * *

The manifestation of Vexen's ghost seems to have aborted the blurring line between the scientist's memories and his own -- and for that, Saix is grateful, and not a little relieved. On the other hand, it also means that the construct isn't nearly half so manageable. It hovers and complains and offers pithy commentary while Saix is attempting to concentrate, and is, generally speaking, an all-around nuisance. The Luna Diviner supposes he ought to be glad, at the least, that he's been given something more tangible than a voice at the back of his head to speak with; all the same, he isn't sure that this is much of an improvement.

Matters come to a head when the ghost speaks directly into his ear, criticizing his handwriting as he attempts to translate the scientist's notes. As far beyond irritated as any of his kind can possibly be, Saix snarls an oath, pushes himself away from the desk, and hurls the inkpot at what he estimates to be the location of Vexen's head.

Even if it were there, of course, the projectile makes no impact, but smoothly sails on through. The subsequent shatter of glass against the far wall of the room -- and the black stain that blooms against the stone -- is enough of an indicator of the trajectory the ill-chosen missile takes, and Saix frowns. He'll have to get a Dusk to clean that up later, and perhaps get him a new inkwell. What a waste, really. He shouldn't have snapped like that.

Vexen's ghost seems to be thinking along the same lines, because its voice is full of reproach. _Now what was **that** for?_

The question is enough to douse what's left of Saix's brief rage; memories of emotion only go so far once rationality arrives on the scene. The Diviner loses his hands into slow fists, and then opens them again, feeling the play of muscles and bones. This is flesh. _This_ is real.

Vexen is not.

"Why," he blurts suddenly, leaning back against his chair with a long-suffering sigh, "do I have to have such _unhelpful_ delusions?"

There is a long pause.

 _I'm **not** just a delusion._ If it's possible for a voice to be pale, Vexen's is, and Saix wonders which of them he's trying to convince.

"Yes, you are," he answers, and the words form a bored drawl. "You're a fiction of my mind, you're a ghost of a man who I never knew to begin with -- you aren't real." _You never **were**_ , he wants to add, to make the insult bite deep, but before he can say it he feels the atmosphere of the room change subtly, and he tenses without knowing why.

 _Then how do I know whose name you call out in your sleep?_

For an instant, Saix freezes; he thinks suddenly of Xigbar, and of secrets. Then he turns his face in the vague direction where Vexen might be, and replies, "Because you _don't._ "

That challenge charges the air more suddenly than any of Larxene's fits.

 _I don't?_ Vexen's voice is taut as a steel cable. _Then tell me, how **are** you getting along these days with a man who doesn't need **anything** you can offer --_

It's not anger which propels Saix out of his chair; not anger, not rage, not anything as honest as _emotion_ , but the memory of it possesses him as deftly as any berserking fury, boiling up from that part of himself which ignored any loss of his actual heart. His _identity_ , maybe, as irrevocably bound to anger as Vexen's seems to be to life. Not anger, then. A wounded sense of pride, perhaps, or rudimentary affection gone sour.

The half-companionship he's grown comfortable in inverts upon itself in less than the time it takes to blink. Summoning bitterness takes hardly any effort at all. What a state he's come to, to be caught arguing with a fiction of his mind. How pathetic. What would Xemnas _say?_

Saix would laugh, if the words didn't sting so close to the truth.

How does one war with a vision? Even as he pushes himself off the chair and reaches for the voice that spits insults as easily as false breath, Saix already knows the effort is futile. Still, he can't help but try. There is a world of difference between a mere inkpot and a powerful Nobody lunging through the air, though they may well possess about the same emotional capacity.

Exactly how much that _is_ , Saix isn't certain sometimes.

Confusion solves no dilemmas. Saix's body is his truest law, now that he's lost his heart; it claws at the room in impotent gestures that grant no satisfaction. Air parts easily around his fingers, providing as much of a sense of accomplishment as cutting fog.

The lack of anything solid to absorb his attacks means that his aggression finds itself trapped in the circuit of his nerves, biological electricity looking for somewhere to ground itself. Something strange is happening behind his eyes; it's not rage, but it's the closest to that white hot oblivion he's had since he became a Nobody, and he embraces it like a lover.

He wants to grip and grasp and tear apart -- he wants to exert his non-frustration on something, _anything_ , that can receive it.

On his third wild swing, his half-curled fingers connect with something like flesh. Tiny bones beneath it give a sudden, terrible creak as he lets his hand clamp around them and _squeeze_ , hard. Saix is mildly gratified to hear Vexen hiss, relishing the familiar scornful sound of indrawn breath sucked in through the scientist's teeth. The Chilly Academic has always been proud of his unshakeable demeanor; it's always a grim sort of pleasure to see him rattled out of it.

It's only a beat later that Saix realizes the extent of their madness. While his skin is telling him in no uncertain terms that _something_ is certainly there, ice cold and clammy against the sweaty heat of his palm, his eyes are giving him a completely different message: there is nothing in his grasp but air.

The realization stuns him long enough that when the impact comes, he doesn't expect it -- though Vexen, as expected, punches like a complete woman, slapping more than hitting. The momentum behind it may be weak, but the hit has an unexpected sharpness to it: the knuckles on the scientist's hand, bony as the ridges on one of Xaldin's dragoons, crack against Saix's cheekbones with enough force to leave stinging pain and bruises in their wake.

Twisting his head around sharply, even before the sound of fist against flesh finishes echoing around the room, Saix retaliates by snapping at air. His aim's true enough, and he manages to catch Vexen's hand in his mouth. He lets his teeth grind against Vexen's knuckles, unconsciously waiting for the tang of blood; it's almost a disappointment when none comes. He finds himself grinning in not-entirely-wholesome amusement -- and can't find it in himself to really care.

In response, the scientist half-cracks Saix's skull with an impact that could only come from a headbutt.

They fight with no grace and no beauty, and as they crash furiously around Vexen's quarters, the detached part of Saix not running high on adrenalin wonders what this tableau could possibly look like to anyone who came in right now. Would they think Saix had at last snapped, gone around the bend? Or would they recognize the unknown at work? More than likely, he reckons, it would be a combination of both -- they'd assume he'd been possessed by some sort of vengeful ghost.

And maybe that's the real truth.

Saix can't see where Vexen's hits are coming from, but he can judge their source, and it doesn't take him long to discern that Vexen is still fighting with both feet on the floor, with whatever physical strength he must have had in life. That's a pleasant surprise in Saix's favor; had Vexen known of or tried to use his own intangibility to his advantage beyond simple invisibility, then the fight might be a lot more complicated.

As it is, however, it isn't hard for Saix to knock Vexen down to the ground at all. He spents a few moments spread-eagled over the scientist's heaving chest, groping for his ankles and wrists to hold him down, listening impassively to the sistrum-rattle of the other man's breath.

"Do you yield?" Saix asks, though it's a purely perfunctory gesture. He can feel the strange headiness inspired by physical exertion beginning to fade.

If Vexen had eyes he could actually see with, Saix imagines, he'd be glaring. Even so, Saix can still feel the weight of that invisible glower.

 _No,_ Vexen spits, and then his invisible mass disappears from under Saix, dropping him to the carpet from a good ten inches or so in the air. Saix swears as the impact sends a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves in his elbow screaming. Awkwardly, he maneuvers himself to his feet, flopping onto the bed.

"That could have gone better," he says aloud. There is no response.

Vexen doesn't return for the rest of the night.


	3. The Undefined Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vexen is real. Vexen is dead. Vexen never existed. Saix no longer knows which statement is true. His life is a balance between shadow and light, but there are still different paths left to him: Saix makes his choice.

Hate is a seed that tastes like home. Vexen hasn't really touched it since losing his heart, but when everything is a memory, then everything is equally distant, equally close. The illusion of emotion runs just as strong as the sensation of _touch_ , and in the million tiny details that the scientist struggles to remember, emotions are as good as anything else.

Hate is a seed that Vexen swallows into his innards and nurtures in his stomach, growing with all the sense of vengeance of a garden left to ruin. Tendrils of it slide into the cracks in his consciousness, where his will has begun to falter; its roots creep into the broken china of his memories, keeping pieces aligned, if not whole. The most luxuriant fronds frame the empty space in his chest, where they curl protectively around a budding bloom -- the promise of fruit yet to be borne.

Or maybe that's just what he wishes it could be. The metaphor is overly botanical; it's something that Marluxia would think up, and Vexen wants nothing to do with _that_ man. But the images are, at least, vivid, and it's becoming more difficult to keep reality straight without _some_ sort of stabilizing influence -- regardless of how crazy that influence might _be_ \-- and in that moment Vexen suddenly realizes that he just might understand Xemnas a little more now.

Finally.

Of course, it's too late to make a difference.

* * * * * *

Saix, for once, does not attempt to drown his problems through coffee.

The teapot was shattered in the melee.

He refuses to pick up the pieces for a week, unable to tolerate the metaphors inherent with broken pottery. When he finally acknowledges the debris of powder and ceramic, it’s only to order a Dusk to sweep up the mess; even then, there’s a faint white residue left behind, a dust that’s settled into the fibers of the carpet no matter how many times he runs his hand across the floor.

It's impossible to miss what was never there, particularly when one lacks the organs necessary to miss _with_. He never had any sort of sentimental attachment to the scientist to begin with. Saix _does not_ find Vexen's absence disquieting because he _cannot_ , but after a few days of it the Luna Diviner finds himself oddly distracted, prone to jerking at shadows and listening too intently into silences. It isn't until Demyx gives him a perplexed look over dinner and comments on his twitchiness -- drawing the uncomfortable scrutiny of the other members -- that Saix recognizes it.

He's looking for Vexen.

If it is possible for a person to become a bad habit, then IV must be his. Saix isn't particularly entertained by the thought. It implies tolerance of eccentricity, and the ability to become accustomed to the irrational. While both are acceptable in a certain sense -- the senior members all have their quirks, and how Saix himself is given space for his own peculiar tendencies -- applied to this particular situation, it's no less than appalling.

When the ghost finally returns, it‘s without fanfare. In the middle of the night, Saix wakes to an unfriendly pressure on his chest and shallow breathing in his ear. If it is possible for ghosts to be wet, he thinks that Vexen must be, because he feels cold toes flexing against his skin and the weight of damp cloth draped across his neck.

For a moment, Saix thinks Vexen means to kill him, and then dismisses that thought as ridiculous. Even as acerbic as he is, murdering people in their sleep is not the scientist's style. He'd much rather wake them and have them _know_ who is doing this to them -- which leads Saix to the question of why Vexen’s shade, of all things, is _sitting on his chest_ at an unholy hour of night, saying nothing.

He almost expects an insult to come forth, a reprimand of sorts, but there are no apologies, and there is no forgiveness.

Just three words:

 _Don't forget me_ , Vexen says quietly, and even his voice _sounds_ damp, like he's been caught out in a thunderstorm and swallowed the rain. Saix realizes he can feel the scientist rocking back and forth, his bare heels digging against his ribs. The berserker considers the request for a moment, and without particularly thinking about it, he finds himself making room on the bed for another body, reaching out to grasp an unseen shoulder and push the weight aside.

"Then stop choking me," he responds, roughly, "Or there won't be anything of me left to remember."

Vexen slides off him, unusually docile, and really: that should be Saix's warning right there. But he is too tired to care and the bed's made for two anyway, and it's simply a matter of turning over on his side and pretending the other man doesn't exist.

It's easy enough to do this with a real person, but strangely enough, it's impossible with a ghost. Saix lies half-awake all night, too restless to sleep, and listens to even breathing that he should not be able to hear.

* * * * * *

Locking himself away in an angry huff, childishly excluding the world, is no longer a viable course of action for Vexen to take whenever the berserker has been particularly irritating. Like it or not, he depends on Saix's ability to recognize him, to define the edges of what he is; by necessity he remains closer than VII may be aware of, growing more familiar with Saix's strange hours as the days of their steely noncommunication pass by.

His pride still stings enough that actually _speaking_ to Saix about it unthinkable, but that does not mean he does not allow himself to watch. It's hardly any different than before, really, except that Vexen can no longer deliver waspish remarks at leisure. Silence is a game they both play at, and the first of them to break it has already lost.

At times, Vexen is especially hard-pressed not to hiss in scandal, to bodily remove the Diviner from his bed. Over the months, Saix has gradually shifted his sleeping habits. From lying fully-clothed on top of Vexen's sheets, the berserker has shed more and more of the layers he wraps around himself; now that Vexen finally has the time to truly notice it, he wonders when it was that Saix became comfortable enough to sleep beneath his linens, clad in the barest minimum of cloth.

Or more importantly, when he became comfortable enough to entertain dreams of lust while in Vexen's _bed._ The scientist's experience of the pleasures of the flesh are patchy at best, though he's familiar enough with the clinical mechanics of it to know what it involves, and the personal mechanics of inconvenient hormones. Even he can guess -- has been guessing, really -- the nature of the visions that leave Saix writhing like an cat in heat.

Vexen wouldn't mind it so much, if it weren't for the mess it leaves.

The scientist mollifies himself with one promise. Once he and Saix are fully back on speaking terms once again, he'll have ample source material to insult him with.

With that idea comes another: the further he can convince Saix to incriminate himself, the longer the berserker will be forced to stay.

* * * * * * *

When the first light, caressing touch comes against his hip, Saix thinks he's still asleep.

Waking himself when his dreams take a direction for the worse has become instinct by this point, but it takes Saix a few minutes to realize that this isn't a nighttime fantasy that will end when he opens his eyes, simmering with frustration and embarrassment -- it's reality, or close enough to it, and that causes fear truer than anything he's ever felt before since becoming a Nobody.

But by then, he doesn't have much room to feel anything but Vexen, and his questions end up having to wait.

Halfway through, the chemist's ghost seems to decide that now is the opportune moment to press his suit.

 _Take it back_ , Vexen murmurs into Saix's collarbones, the plain, raw want in his voice almost as sharp as his teeth. _Say it._

"Say _what?_ " Saix grits his teeth against a whine; he will not, cannot beg. The berserker does not care for Vexen's conversational tone in the bedroom, the odd sense that the scientist takes satisfaction in the advantage he wields over Saix on this unfamiliar ground. He feels like he's being caught and landed, wound tighter and closer into a perverse fishing net. If it were possible, Vexen could possibly be taking notes on this.

 _Say it._ Cold breath flutters over the wet trail Vexen's tongue has traced down to Saix's stomach. The Diviner's muscles jump, and not for the first time, he wonders whether Vexen's actions are deliberate or incidental -- if it's the strange sense of being needed by a creature so desperate that makes the berserker’s nerves sing, or if it’s the scientist's own expertise. Neither are concepts his mind can easily wrap itself around.

 _Take it back,_ Vexen says again, voice a reed-thin whisper. _Tell me I'm real._

 _Tell me I'm not yours._

"Would you rather I say you were Xemnas's --" Saix begins to ask, and then Vexen’s tongue descends upon the lines of his stomach.

When he wakes up the next day, the bed is empty of any person save himself, and his mouth tastes rancid and sour.

* * * * * *

Several months into his informal possession of Vexen's quarters, Saix reaches into the tea cabinet to discover that he's completely cleaned out its coffee supply. He feels an irrational sense of loss. He didn't even _drink_ the stuff before now, and only started out of the twinned need to understand Vexen, and to spite him.

Fortunately for Saix, he remembers the particular brand. One discreet request of Luxord later and he finds himself once again well-supplied with coffee, ready to keep him awake on the nights where sleep is not the preferable course of action to take. He's beginning to suspect he's developing a tolerance for the caffeine, no matter how thick and black he brews it; these nights he often needs more than a single cup to keep himself awake without constantly fighting the urge to yawn.

Saix tries not to think too hard about what this implies, this curious adoption of someone else's vices -- this ingestion of foreign habits, this undeniable sensation of walking through someone else's shoes. It's like letting in stray cats for shelter from the rain. One sneaks in, and suddenly there are dozens, crowding up against your stoop, begging for food and warmth. Shutting them out never succeeds once they've had a taste of your comforts: they circle in the darkness, clawing to get in.

* * * * * *

Vexen's ghost, Saix begins to notice, is oddly talkative, although the conversations it strikes up don't seem to revolve around any particular topic. Occasionally the scientist will speak out of the blue, on subjects that Saix has given no prompt to respond to.

He's beginning to get the sense that there's something slightly off about this pale shadow of the man he once knew, but he cannot quite place what this flaw is.

At one point the ghost suddenly volunteers Saix some unnecessary advice.

 _A hot shower will help with that_ , he intones, and Saix stops rubbing at the nape of his neck, where muscle has curled up into itself in loud protest.

Saix frowns. "How would you know?"

There's a pause that takes as long as a shrug, for a living man, and Vexen speaks again. _I've spent enough nights aching from sitting over my books to know what can ease discomfort. It's not so strange a thing, even for researchers -- pain makes results unreliable. It is best to be dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to return to one‘s work._

For a moment Saix has trouble reconciling the series of images -- cold, analytical Vexen -- to the others -- warm tea, muscle rubs, comfort. He tries not to think too hard on why it surprises him to learn that Vexen ever had a claim to being alive, to having a fallible body; the entire concept is one that belongs to humans, which Vexen never seemed particularly interested in except as case studies.

He wonders if being in the Vexen's rooms is beginning to rub some of the academic's taste for theory on him, if the contact of hands and the ingestion of cold spit down his throat has, in some way, turned him into a creature not unlike what IV was in life. He thinks too much, these days, spends more time dwelling in the realm of what-could-be and why-is-this and how-can-it than he ever has in his entire life. He thinks more than he needs to, which means that his hours are filled with the theoretical, lacking any concrete answers that might help the needs of the Organization.

Saix considers the books on Vexen's shelves, plays back conversations in his head, and wastes an entire afternoon thinking about a word to describe the shade of green Vexen's eyes must be. He catches himself contemplating whether or not academia is a venereal disease of some sort, an affliction passed through fluids and spite. He debates the connotations between three different words for _redundant_ before deciding on none of them at all.

If Vexen is an illness, then Saix has no clue of a possible cure; nothing save one, and death did not fix matters for the scientist.

Saix never invites the contact that comes between them. Practically speaking, he can't. He hasn't tried to grab the academic in midair since the last time they fought, and he probably never will; it's too strange a sensation. Too disorienting, and the last thing that Saix needs is _more_ reason to doubt his senses.

He's content, then -- or at least, resigned -- to have Vexen lead the way through their encounters whenever their conversations turn physical. It seems the scientist has a clear enough idea of what he's doing, and it hasn’t resulted in disappointment for the berserker so far, although he finds himself wondering often where Vexen ever learnt any of this.

 _If_ he ever learnt any of it. Sometimes, the academic will fumble, and that's cause for suspicion enough. Why a possible virgin might suddenly feel the need to indoctrinate themselves into physical pleasures when they _have_ no body to do such with is curious -- at the least.

It isn't until Saix feels hips uncertainly lowering onto his that he realizes something is amiss. "Hang on," he says, hand snapping out to catch Vexen by what he thinks is the other man’s thigh. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

The scientist's voice is shaky but determined. _I'm already dead_ , he hisses pointedly, wriggling in Saix's grasp like an invisible eel. _What can you **possibly** do to hurt me?_

Saix doesn't have an answer to that, admittedly, but all the same, he finds the idea of penetration without any sort of preparation rather distasteful. Lubrication's for the convenience of both parties, after all. Vexen may not have any problems with this -- and Saix has experienced worse -- but the dry friction on the berserker's end may well do him more pain than pleasure, if he can't convince IV otherwise.

So he says, "Wait," and scrabbles for the side drawer, hoping that Vexen has had the sense to have something in there they can use.

Among the pens and notepads clatter a handful of vials. Some of them, Saix can dismiss instantly -- he recognizes the labels as chapsticks or ink -- but one of the bottles contains what looks like a few drams of pale yellow oil. _For relief from muscle tension_ , the small print on the side reads, which gives the proof to Vexen’s claims of shoulder massages. When Saix unscrews the cap, the contents do not reek like a garden of perfumes, which is encouraging enough.

He wets his fingers liberally, almost dropping the cap when he tries to close the bottle; he resorts to setting the vial on the table with the hope that it won’t be knocked over somehow during the night.

Vexen -- he assumes -- has been watching the proceedings with impatience, because Saix has barely finished coating his fingers thoroughly before the scientist gives a _hrmph_ of impatience. The noise is enough to encourage the Diviner to grab at the general region of Vexen’s waist; the grip is slippery, but enough to help guide him as he angles his hand for where he hopes the scientist’s groin will be.

As he does, he wonders -- with a kind of awful curiosity -- if he'll still be able to see his finger after it goes in, or if it will simply disappear, amputated as neatly as a war wound. He decides he does not, in fact, particularly care to find out, and so he simply closes his eyes and drives it upwards.

The reaction is instantaneous: bony fingers suddenly clamp onto his shoulders as Vexen jerks. The scientist moans -- the lewdest sound Saix has ever heard _anywhere_ , in his dreams and in his ears and in all the worlds he's been to.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" Somehow, he manages to find the ability to be triumphant.

IV hisses at him again, muttering curses against his neck. _How could I, when I've never been ow --f -- bastard!_ The expletive is delivered with a yowl, as Saix's idle curiosity prompts him to explore this most intimate part of Vexen's body in a way that it's never been touched.

He’s well aware of how uncomfortable initial penetration can be; this alone eases the pressure off from his hand, and he waits for Vexen’s growled complaints to taper off before redoubling his efforts. A moment later, the illusion of wetness splatters against his stomach, and Saix realizes he's vaguely surprised to learn that he can make Vexen come with one finger.

He's even more surprised to find himself wondering what he can make Vexen do with _more._

The answer leaves the sheets cold in irregular patches from Vexen‘s breath, warm from Saix’s body heat.

Only gradually does the Diviner’s triumph fade, only to be replaced with a single horrible question: if all of Vexen’s presence stems from memory, how can the scientist have sexual experiences that didn’t exist before death?

The paradox keeps Saix awake all that night, feeling the spidery touch of Vexen whisper across his skin, and wondering how much of it is real.

* * * * * * *

There is one more advantage to Vexen's ghost taking a more active hand in meddling. These nights Saix's sleep has remained, for the most part, largely undisturbed; he does not dream of the scientist’s hands cutting off his air flow, of Vexen’s empty eyes blotting out the sun. If anything, the berserker’s sleep is plagued by IV in a different way: since Vexen has discovered that he is able to stimulate the Diviner’s body, he seems willing to do so regardless of the hour, like a child poking at a new toy.

There is no logic to dreams. Adding meaning to the random misfirings of his brain is a pointless exercise. Nonetheless, Saix is used to having dreams which maintain at least a minimum of connection to his waking hours -- to dream of his own death irritates him in a way he cannot place.

The desire -- _any_ desire -- to die does not exist in him in his present state. Perhaps his Other may have prayed for a quick end in his weakest moments; perhaps his Nobody may yet find a reason to seek it. As far as Saix can ascertain, however, he has no wish to commit suicide at any point in the near future. Such an event would leave the Organization in a rather undesirable state of affairs: while the senior members' efficiency is unquestionable, and the newer members are capable enough of accomplishing missions, they lack the element of connection between them. Saix manages, however tenuously, to function as that bond.

And that is why it is inexplicable that he dreams of a garden of weeping trees and rusted gates, crawling weeds and lily-choked ponds. For no reason, Saix finds himself wading waist-deep in one of the algae-tinted pools, naked and dry-mouthed. A peculiar urgency drives him through the water, the plants parting beneath his hands with almost audible sighs as he pushes through them. Blossoms kiss against his side, but he ignores the sensation. What he is here for has little to do with any aesthetics this place has to offer.

He searches and searches through the water, but nothing rises out of the depths, and Saix only sees himself reflected back in the darkness.

* * * * * *

Something begins to grow in the berserker’s thoughts after a while, twisting like a vine whose thorns are so tiny that they look like fuzz. Why is Vexen acting so strange? Is it only the lack of a body that leaves the scientist so vulnerable, so willing to pretend to emotions that -- by all rights -- he should not have, not any more than _missing_ or _wanting_ or above all, being unwilling to die?

If this Vexen only exists as a manifestation of impressions, then that would explain it all. Vexen behaves irregularly because Saix is making him this way.

Later on, Saix runs across an interesting passage in one of Vexen's oldest journals, a scrawled note about the nature of scientific inquiry. The lines speak of method, of means, delineating the best way for one to go about divining truth from falsehood, fact from fiction. Some of it is self-contradictory; the berserker puzzles about the logic of proving what is true by proving what is _not._ The words _empirical_ and _objectivity_ seem to rise out of the mess of notes most frequently of them all, and the afternoon has been slow enough that Saix looks them up in the dust-covered dictionary sitting on the corner of Vexen's bookshelf.

Oddly enough, the volume is the least used of Vexen's collection; its pages still smell of new paper when Saix pries them apart. Perhaps Vexen had never known the confusion of an unfamiliar word, or else was too proud to admit it. Whatever the case, Saix benefits from it now. He looks up the words to satisfy his curiosity, and when he finds his thoughts becoming sluggish, he turns the pages at random, losing himself in the tangle of jargon.

He's become better at sensing when Vexen is in the room -- the ghost seems to drift through his quarters willy-nilly at times, particularly when bored by Saix's inactivity. When IV's shade turns the air of the room chill once again, the berserker is ready for it.

"Did you know," he begins, almost conversationally, "that there isn't a single word in this language to rhyme with 'orange'?"

The triviality stumps the ghost for a moment, and Saix can feel a response beginning to build -- he cuts it off with another offhanded delivery, sliding the pad of his thumb along the edge of the page. "And also that your name is an archaic form of the word, 'vexed?' Vexen," he continues, feeling the Nobody's name stripped down to basic letters, "derived from 'vexer,' which itself comes from, 'vexare.'"

Rather than debate the subject of etymology, the scientist only snorts. _What is **wrong** with you today?_ he grumbles, irritably. _Why are you being so..._

"Chatty?" Saix supplies. "Talkative? Verbose? Jocular?" Each synonym rolls off his tongue without effort, spiraling into the pages of the thesaurus section he's holding.

 _No_ , Vexen's ghost mutters. _**Perky.**_

Saix allows himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Truth be told, the berserker dislikes being overly verbal; he’s relieved to fall back into his own thoughts, his own words. The experiment was brief, but useful. Now he knows that Vexen can by influenced by a matter that Saix is interested in. There exists some means of control.

In Vexen's own behaviors lies a fragile thread of rationality that Saix clings to, winds tight around his hands and does not dare to release. For as long as he can convince himself that what he perceives of the scientist's ghost is nothing but his own senses misfiring -- delivering false messages his mind does not know how to interpret as anything but truth -- then he can believe that he has power over this still.

He can believe it. He _has_ to believe it. The alternative does not bear contemplation.

* * * * * *

 _You know what I really miss?_ Vexen asks abruptly one afternoon.

Saix isn't actually interested, but it's not as though it costs him terribly much to listen. "What?"

 _Coffee._

The concept is understandable on a physical level -- a body craves to be fed, watered, and it enjoys the meals it has become accustomed to -- but Vexen lacks a certain vital part of that equation. Saix squints at the air curiously. "How do _you_ miss something?" Meaning, really, _what's left that can miss?_

There's a huff, and if the scientist were visible, Saix would swear he's crossing his arms. _It is possible to have a psychological addiction to a substance,_ Vexen points out sharply. _The dependency does not have to be chemical **or** emotional. So long as it is a part of your daily routine..._

The idea of habits working so deeply into the unconscious causes Saix to lift an eyebrow. He knows about the use of memory for emotion -- any decently strong Nobody possesses that knack -- but he would have assumed that triggers such as _want_ were rooted in the objects that caused them. Emotions from hearts. Hungers, from the body.

"I hear," Saix says with a touch of malicious amusement, "Some worlds burn offerings to their dead, so that their ghosts can feast on the spirit of the food. Would you like me to do that for you, Vexen?" The berserker's lips curve in an expression of cold amusement. "Scorch a pot of coffee?"

 _Very funny, but no. Burnt coffee smells **terrible.**_

"I could set _myself_ on fire," Saix replies, mildly disappointed that the jibe did not have any stronger reaction, and moving to another object without really thinking. "What about that?"

Vexen snorts. _Would you, really?_

"No."

 _I didn't think so._

* * * * * *

Life gradually distinguishes itself for Saix between rooms with Vexen and rooms without. Sitting in his own chambers or reading mission files in the library seems emptier without the scientist lending unwanted insight. Saix might almost say he wants the ghost around as a constant presence; without it, there's a strange feeling of disconnection, as if his senses are a compass needle endlessly spinning in search of an unknown north. Vexen is an addiction as simple as caffeine. A part of daily routine. Nothing more.

Despite his demise, the scientist seems to be as vibrant as he ever was -- which isn't saying much at all. But Saix cannot discern the difference between Vexen alive and Vexen dead. The majority of the impressions he gathers now are limited to the latter alone; the scientist‘s journals have yielded up the full depth of their treasures weeks ago, leaving Saix to circle endlessly in doubt. How much of Vexen is truth? How much of him is fiction? Was there ever, really, a difference between either -- and does it matter? His mind refuses to contemplate it for long, and in the end he is left with even less certainty than he began with.

Less certainty, and the touch of the scientist’s ghost on his body each night.

On one level, he’s completely disgusted by what they're doing. On another, he’s bizarrely titillated, trapped like a struggling ant in a flood of tacky honey. Only one of them is a scientist; only one of them can really be looking at this from a scientific angle, but they can both rely on the excuse that they're curious about the boundaries of the living.

Saix keeps his eyes shut, head tilted up and face as blank as he can make it -- as if he is facing a thousand spears pointed at his chest instead of Vexen's face. Perhaps closing his eyes is more for sanity's sake than anything else, allowing Diviner to forget for a moment that what his hips snap against is _nothing._

The Luna Diviner kisses Vexen as though as he expects to die for it.

 _Something_ dies, when they touch each other; that much Saix knows, though whether this is for the better or the worse, the Diviner does not know.

He does wonder, when he has time to: is it _really_ intercourse, when he can't even see the other man involved?

Sex with a ghost, he thinks, shouldn't be any more satisfying than touching himself. There is nothing, nothing here that he could not replicate for himself with his eyes closed: not the trembling, uncertain fingers clamped onto his hip, not the cool, calloused hand curling half-painfully around him, not the obscene wetness inching its way along the inside of his thigh and--

He makes the mistake of closing his eyes against the sensation, and his mind betrays him, drawing on half a year's worth of frustrated visions to fill in what daily life cannot show him.

 _Skinhairhandslipsmouthteethtongue **eyes** \--_

That's all it takes for him to buck off the bed, spine snapping bow-taut and hips straining heavenward even as unseen hands hold him down. Saix doesn't recognize the keening in his throat as his own voice, at first; when he realizes the _noise_ he's making, he shuts his mouth with a snap. He should have more control than a base animal. Even if they're in rooms far enough removed from the others that no one could possibly hear them unless they were standing right outside the door, the need to keep up appearances stings him keenly.

Then an unseen tongue gives him one final swipe, and he almost finds himself whispering, _Xemnas_ , in what little breath remains to him after trapping it in his lungs. He cuts that sound off too.

When he becomes aware that he can hear Vexen chuckling off to the side, he realizes his precaution is futile. The only person Saix's weakness in this moment would matter to is already aware of it.

Vexen is never going to let him live this shame down.

Later, once Saix has recovered enough to register proper conversation, Vexen makes a dry comment about the astonishing convenience that ghosts lack a gag reflex, or he might have died all over again.

Saix hears Vexen saying the words, but underneath it, he hears something more: satisfaction, and not a little pride.

* * * * * *

The berserker realizes to what extent he’s been disconnected from the world when he encounters Luxord in one of the castle’s dustier hallways. When he greets the gambler with an automatic _welcome home_ , Luxord gives him a strange look.

“I’ve been back at the Castle for two weeks, Saix.”

“Oh,” VII says, feeling muddled and stupid -- _ridiculous_ , really, considering he’s been sleeping surprisingly well.

The Gambler absorbs this response with a long, appraising stare before his next response. “Let’s take a walk.”

The man’s expression is almost kind, and that’s disgusting, but Saix agrees anyway.

Walking with X is not a strange act in itself, because Saix has done it before. These days he is prompted to conduct his missions alone, but there was a time when the Organization was warier-- or perhaps simply had more members to spare. Whichever the case, he's had his share of partnered missions, and he is not completely incapable of social interaction if necessity dictates it.

And really, that's what makes this so unusual. There is no mission at hand to discuss, no true reason for them to be strolling through one of the gardens bordering the Castle's edges.

That's not strictly accurate, of course. _Luxord_ strolls, indolent as a lord. Saix, like most sane people, simply walks.

There is no conversation until they reach one of the paved courtyards randomly interspersed amongst the hedges, location prone to shift at the castle's odd whim. The gambler settles himself on the edge of the courtyard's lone fountain, where a silent stone cupid is forever holding up a cornucopia of water. Saix, for his part, remains standing. He’s still uncertain what he's doing here, and Luxord does not seem inclined to elaborate.

Suddenly, the air is filled with the business-like snap of paper: X has drawn out his cards, making them fly from palm to palm with a confidence that only comes with familiarity. Despite himself, Saix is drawn to watch, and it's not until the sound stops that he realizes he's having a handful of fanned-out cards proffered at his nose.

He blinks. "What is it?"

"Pick one."

That sounds too much like an order for the diviner's peace of mind, and he almost bristles. The concept of seniority still holds, somewhere in his bones, even if he knows that the gambler isn't unlike himself; they both favor gradually establishing themselves in the Organization's revised hierarchy, and this mutual understanding has worked well so far.

Saix dismisses the irritation as quickly as it rises, settling instead for a question: "Why?"

X seems to understand, but the cards remain extended. "I would like to know what's been on your mind."

"And you believe playing cards can tell you this?" The idea is laughable, but considering how much Saix is likely to admit if he’s asked directly, he supposes this is as good a method of inquiry as any. He doesn't understand what Luxord's motives could be, and he finds it safer to err on the side of caution before he decides anything.

"It can't do any harm to try." Luxord simply grins, the Nobody-sigils on the back of the cards appearing to beckon in invitation. "And there are times when the cards provide you with better insight than you could find on your own." He pauses, considers. "Or are you too afraid of what you'll find?"

The edges of the fanned-out deck waver, hesitant.

Saix reaches out before he realizes it, pulling a card from the stack before it can be drawn away. Only when he glimpses the smug tilt to the gambler’s lips does Saix realize that the reaction is _exactly_ what Luxord expected, and by snatching the card, Saix has only fallen into the trap.

Even so, it's too late to recant now.

With something like a muscle memory of trepidation, Saix turns the card over.

Dark eyes stare up at him, a mouth drawn in an imperious frown. It takes Saix a moment to spot the dress, realize it's meant to be a woman -- there's something almost masculine about her features, but the sense of _royalty_ is undeniable. Gold lines the woman's veil, falling artfully from the crown set on her head, and the sigil clutched her hands is almost spearlike, threatening. It's good craftsmanship, and the berserker studies it for a moment, lost in thought.

"The Queen of Spades," Luxord says reflectively, plucking the card from Saix's hands and twirling it around in his fingers. "The _Black Maria._ Some people say she was Death, once. In the old cards." The Nothing-paper flicks around in his fingers, blue to black and white and back.

"And what does that mean?" Saix does not like fortunetelling games. "This Lady Death?"

The card stills to a stop between the knuckles of Luxord's index and middle finger, one corner pointing accusingly at Saix.

"Death in some fortunes," the gambler tells Saix, "means change. The Queen of Spades, though..." he taps the card against his chin, brushing stubble with the motion.

"...she just means some kind of disaster."

Without warning, he flicks the card towards Saix's face.

Saix catches it. "No," he says, frowning as memory stirs in him. Even he, he realizes, knows this lore; it's strange that Luxord should get it incorrect. "It's the _Ace_ that means tragedy, isn't it?"

Luxord grins. "Maybe so," he acknowledges, "But I've always thought, if disaster had to happen to me, that it ought to be beautiful. And who wouldn't want a fine woman waiting for them at the end of it all? Black Maria, Lady Fair. Someone with welcoming arms and a smile better than anything you've ever wanted before."

For a moment, Saix's mind gives him a flash of green eyes, and the memory of cold fingers on his skin.

"I don't want _anyone_ there when I'm dead," he informs the gambler neatly. "I'd rather there be nothing at all."

Luxord lifts his eyebrows in two perfect curves of blond smugness. "Then I'll have your share, and we'll call it even."

* * * * * *

As the weeks progress, Saix finds less relevancy to Vexen’s presence, now that the man’s rooms have been conquered. The Diviner has successfully plotted out the scientist’s position in relation to the original founding members of the Organization, and he has benefited from this understanding. He has learned how to defer to II when Xigbar claims his rare moments of authority, and about the way that Xaldin does not need reports to be precise, so long as they are delivered without opinions to color the facts.

Like the flesh around a wound, the Organization has slowly begun to knit itself back together, making unspoken adjustments to compensate for any loss of function.

But Vexen is not a part of any of this. When Kingdom Hearts reaches a stable enough mass that it is no longer a translucent shimmer, Saix offers the news; Vexen forgets it within days. IV is locked into this slice of the Castle, this tiny world of three rooms, and the scientist has shown no signs of being able to leave.

Thinking about this brings a conclusion to Saix’s mind that refuses to be dispelled: in the paradox of life continuing on without hearts, without bodies, maybe memory is the only part of existence that matters.

Maybe death only comes when everyone else moves on.

Xemnas calls Saix up in person to his offices that afternoon. Kingdom Hearts is a blot of pale ivory in the sky as the Superior rattles off criteria and requirements and cautionary statements of what to do if the Keyblade Master appears. He dismisses Saix without waiting to hear if the berserker will accept the task; they both know he will, without protest.

Saix reviews the details in Vexen’s rooms, over a cup of coffee and half a sandwich. This is the first time that a mission will take the Diviner away from Vexen's rooms for any significant amount of time. This world is labeled as Wonderland; there is a deftly penned manifesto included in the folder that lists the rough hierarchy of power, along with a sketch of several cards on the front. Tiny spade-footmen dance with heart-executioners. Included is also a note: _Thought you might enjoy a change of pace! Affectionately, Luxord._

Saix stares at the folder, turning it around in his hands, and considers whether or not he believes in signs.

After a moment, he gets to his feet.

 _Wait._

Saix waits.

 _Don't forget to come back_ , Vexen says at last, an echo of an older wish, and Saix shakes his head.

"I won't," he says. It is not a lie, because he does not think it is possible to forget something like this, possible to pretend that he has not spent a year flirting with the idea of what makes something _real._

It is not a lie, truly, because Saix does not forget. In fact, he spends the entire length of the mission thinking about Vexen, about the scientist's rooms -- about the Organization and traitors and Keyblades and what it means when someone finally dies three times over. Heart. Body. Soul.

When he comes back home, he spends a week alone in the upper halls of the Castle. The isolation is soothing: no one invades Saix’s personal space, and slowly, he can feel his thoughts begin to unwind, finding a rest state which is not affected by anyone else’s presence.

Curiosity sends a thread back into his perfect stillness. He made a promise, after all, and even though he’s willing to discard his own words easily enough, he finds no reason _not_ to return to Vexen’s chambers.

The doors are closed when he makes his way in from the hall. At first he wonders if his absence has dispelled the illusion of the scientist’s ghost. The rooms feel _dusty_ now that he’s had time away; they are abandoned husks waiting for deconstruction. The lights seem dimmer when he turns them on. No one says hello.

Then, just as he’s about to write off the entire experience as some sort of lunar fluke, a wisp of cool air touches his skin.

 _You’re here._ Vexen’s presence is faint, almost as bad as the first time Saix had begun to hear the scientist. _I thought --_

“What?” Saix asks, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he wants to hear Vexen say it out loud.

But he’s not rewarded with any grand revelation. The ghost admits to nothing, just a mutter on the air that could have been any number of useless trivialities.

“So,” he asks instead, because Wonderland has left a taste for petty cruelty in his mouth, “did anyone stop by while I was gone?”

The silence is thick.

Another time, Saix might have found that triumph to be a smug one. Now, as he peels off his coat and drops it on the nearest chair, he finds that he simply can’t care.

* * * * * *

The two of them have less to speak about now, it seems; or rather, Saix has little that he wants to say, and even less inclination to answer the scientist’s numerous inquiries. There had been a time when it had felt strange to be separated from the ghost’s constant presence. Now it rankles on Saix’s nerves to always have the spirit around, always be bothered by pointless inquiries -- not when Xemnas had more tasks for the berserker to fulfill, more reasons for Saix to leave Vexen’s rooms and obey the Superior’s wishes.

It is a deliberate choice that continues to surface, swinging options between Vexen and Xemnas. Or rather, between life and death: Vexen shows no signs of changing, of moving on past his strange fixation with Saix, but Xemnas has been researching Kingdom Hearts like a man possessed. Xaldin and Xigbar both mutter about how impossible it is to keep up with the Superior; Vexen will always be in a ghost in a room, but Xemnas is slipping away.

Saix chooses. He chooses again. At first it’s a simple matter to shunt aside a visit to Vexen’s rooms as something he’ll get around to after he finishes the inventory of Sorcerer Dusks; then he wakes up early and leaves for his next mission before finishing his coffee. There are simply not enough hours in the day to be in both places, and Saix realizes -- slowly, but with an inevitability that feels like he’s peeling off a scab to discover fresh skin beneath -- that he’s not adverse to this change.

Xemnas is alive. The Organization is alive.

Vexen is not.

Luxord invites him up one day, unexpectedly. The two of them keep their observatories on the same level of the Castle; by this logic, they should either have been the best of friends, or the worst of enemies. The truth is neither. They are content to be largely indifferent to one another, with the extent of their interactions confined to business. Saix does not complain about the periodic card games, and Luxord makes no commentary when the lunarium is filled with roars.

“Your brand of coffee,” the gambler smiles. “Or was it Vexen’s?”

Saix casts a glance over the chessboard which X has laid out; the playing field has been set neatly in the middle of a white tablecloth, and a few stray dishes line the side. Luxord uses his chosen element deftly, pausing and reanimating the candle which lurks within arm’s reach on the table. The long taper burns erratically, dribbling wax in long, bulbous streams. It’s only half-melted.

There is no clock. As Saix watches the gambler, he realizes that Luxord is using the candle to measure time, studying the complex puzzle in fits and starts while he races against self-imposed limits. He creates and unmakes each move in the game at whim, advancing the pieces forward several turns before deciding to backtrack at random, putting the candle on pause whenever he has to retreat his steps.

Something that strikes Saix: Luxord only pauses and plays the candle. For all the Gambler’s powers, he never undoes the progress of the flame; he never makes the taper whole again.

Whether that’s by choice or by limitation, Saix isn’t sure.

“So how is it going?” X says abruptly into the silence, and then clarifies. “Your tragedy?”

Saix catches the reference, but pretends he doesn’t. He folds his arms instead. “What do you mean?”

The Gambler restores time to the candle as he inches a knight forward, occupied with his work. The cards in his left hand tap against the table in an erratic rhythm. “We all must have a Black Maria,” he chides. “The only difference is, which one will we choose?”

Finding the conversation to be well into the terrain of the morbid -- and, therefore, pointless -- Saix shifts his weight. “I have no plans to meet my own destruction anytime soon. What about you?” The Diviner watches as Luxord freezes the candle with another snap of his fingers, shuffling around the pawns. “Have you picked something?”

“I have several worlds which I fully expect to find my destiny upon,” Luxord answers with a shrug, eloquent with his lack of interest. “It’s only a matter of time, Saix. It’s only ever a matter of time for _any_ of us.”

Rather than make sense out of Luxord’s frivolousness -- no matter how many times he interacts with the Gambler, Saix can never understand how anyone can treat survival like a game -- the Diviner only takes a step closer to the table. Black pawns glare across the field to where their enemies are slowly advancing; the white bishops are having a conclave on one side of the board, threatening the black queen from afar. Luxord’s fingers touch both sides on checkered map. The board itself is turned so that the Gambler faces the perspective from the middle ground, with white on his left and black on his right and nothing for his own side.

"How can you play like that?” Saix wonders aloud suddenly. “How do you know when you win?"

"I don't," Luxord answers, absently fanning out the cards in his hand and then passing one slowly through the candleflame.

When the paper does not ignite, Saix makes a startled noise in his throat.

Luxord seems equally surprised at the other Nobody’s reaction; leaving the card idly in the fire, he blinks at the Diviner with mild curiosity. “It’s out of time, Saix,” he says, almost kindly to the berserker’s ignorance. “It’s not able to burn.”

* * * * * *

The stronger Nobodies have mental inventories of what their hearts contained. Some of them can recall honest laughter, or anger, or amusement. Sometimes, even love. The memories which are strongest are the ones which were in full force upon the moment of the heart‘s separation; it is easier to recollect rage when it was the last clear impression you ever had.

But all of them agree on one thing. The sensations are distant, easily controlled, which true hearts never could be.

Xemnas only speaks of hate and despair; from that fact alone, _everyone_ knows what Xehanort felt during his last few moments before the Darkness took him.

What Vexen remembers of his heart is fear mixed with curiosity. With envy, with trepidation, with expectation -- with a dozen flickering emotions, all neatly trapped as insects in a glass jar for study.

What Vexen remembers most clearly about his body is how he begged to stay alive.

* * * * * *

 _Axel killed me._

Saix keeps his eyes on the book. "I knew that already."

 _You -- what?_ Disarmed of his grand revelation, Vexen hovers in place, his concentration momentarily broken. _How?_

"Nothing else would make sense." Sliding the bookmark idly back and forth on the table with his fingers, Saix offers his conclusions without pride. "Axel spent a great deal of time with Larxene. He was also the only survivor. And not even a scratch on him to show for it -- nothing else makes sense," he repeats, and shrugs. "If he did not orchestrate it, he must have profited somehow, and that is still suspect."

 _He'll kill the rest of you too, if you don't pay attention._

"Perhaps."

The stark indifference should be familiar, should even be comforting considering the nature of Nobodies; still, Vexen finds himself in growing impatience with the Berserker. _There is no 'perhaps,'_ he snaps. _Stop wasting your time! Warn the rest of the Organization! Have him executed before it's too late!_

"Xemnas feels it's under control. He assigned me," Saix adds, glancing up at last to the empty room, looking for a face which is not there, "to keep watch over the situation, just in case."

 _Just in case?_ If Vexen had lungs, he would scoff with them. _Tell him what I told you. Tell him --_

"That I have the voice of Number Four in my ear? No," Saix retorts. He laces his fingers on the open pages of his book, implacable as one of his swords with all its spikes folded inwards. "Right now, the Superior seems to trust my ability to handle the matter. That's enough."

The concept is ridiculous. Vexen seizes it immediately. _**You?** Barely sufficient. Axel killed at least one of us, possibly five if you count the traitors. Xemnas would never rely --_

"Xemnas _has._ "

And in those two words, something rings wrong in Vexen's nonexistent ears: the dispassionate confidence of Number Seven, who should have been fourth on the hierarchy and now seems to imply more.

 _How?_ The question is dry with disbelief. _How can he be so careless?_

In reply, Saix only smirks.

Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore impossible for Vexen to have -- even the intellectual version, which is composed of statistical caution and asset analysis and many other fine words which summarize the same concept. Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore Vexen cannot find himself drawn irrevocably to Saix whenever the Nobody is there: watching him perform the most mundane tasks with unthinking ease, drinking coffee, eating lunch, scratching an itch on his leg. He has memorized the idle way that Saix runs his fingers through his hair when he's lost in thought; an irritable sweep of the left hand, palm towards the scalp, starting at the temple and moving back to three inches past the ear.

It's an obsession which is only dimly mirrored by the Organization's need for hearts, and causes Vexen to wonder.

Maybe the more you lose, the more you end up craving by default.

 _You've eaten my food,_ Vexen says, pitch rising with every word, _You've slept in my sheets; hell, you've jerked off in my **bed** ,_ he snarls, voice sharp and accusatory -- despite himself, Saix flinches, if only because the statement is irrevocably true, and more. _An explanation's the least thing you owe me._

By now Saix knows Vexen's moods well enough to hear the scorn in his voice, see the sneer forming on parchment-thin lips. If he opens his mind eyes further, he might almost believe that the scientist is in front of him, discontent and spite commingling with bruised pride and desperation. Almost real enough to touch. Almost.

But not real enough.

"I don't explain things to the dead," he says tersely, and before the scientist can respond he sweeps out of the room.

(What Vexen wants to say is--

 _Damn you, damn you, damn you; damn you for being the only one who can see me, damn you for being the only thing that makes me real here. Damn you for having a body that won't do what it's told; I want to be real again without having to rely on you being in the same room, I want, I want, **I want --**_ )

When the door closes, Vexen's shade fades into the dust.

* * * * * *

If he can remember self, then he can remember thought. If he can remember _smell_ and _taste_ and _touch_ \-- the feeling of hair in his fingers, the warmth of skin against his mouth. He will remember and he will exist, and he will remember and he will _remember_ and _he will remember --_

* * * * * *

Saix no longer visits the rooms of the dead. There is no reason anymore. Axel's become so tightly attached to the Key of Destiny that they can find one by tracking the other, and that's good enough for a form of control over the Flurry of Dancing Flames. The Superior has given Saix the same authority as he has to Xigbar; the Luna Diviner's intuition finally succeeded to help ease him into the duties that the lost Nobodies once held.

But when he looks at Kingdom Hearts in the sky -- the source of all hearts, and some would imagine, all life -- Saix still smells coffee in the air.


End file.
